She took the tray with both hands, gulped, and gave way to tears. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. She shrank from him as he gripped her hand more forcibly. As usual Brendon lit the candles, and Sydney dragged out the spiritlamp and set it going. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. Hawk and Buzzard. “Your little flag of pride must flutter down with the rest of them, Ann Veronica.
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