Of the vast mass of these impressions Ann Veronica could make nothing at the time; there they were—Fact! She stored them away in a mind naturally retentive, as a squirrel stores away nuts, for further digestion. The winters were terrible in cold climates, and she often had been driven to dig herself large underground pits where she waited it out like a mole in the cold months. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. Her husband was prouder of her every day. It had ever been her policy, much to Melusine’s relief, for she was apt to complain that it only made her mad and there was nothing she could do about it. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. Stanley professed a great solicitude to warm his hands.
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