“You see, Vee,” said Mrs. Stanley, consenting with dignity. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. And when she took and married that Mr Charvill, we didn’t think to see her at Remenham House no more. The perfume was the only one she ever used. On one side of the handbill a print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig, were just visible above the diadem of the queen. She throws a sort of spell over us all. The place pulsed with music too loud to converse above. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. ‘Ah, bah, it is enough,’ she cried, and turning, ran out of the room.
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