“Val, Val, I love you so.”
It was as though Quentillian had never existed.
“And you’re going to Canada,” she wailed.
“You’re coming with me.”
“I must,” Val said, and surrendered herself to his kisses.
“My daughter, how wet you are!” exclaimed the Canon.
His daughter, hastening to her own room, paused under the light of a lamp, and inadvertently thereby gave the Canon an opportunity of verifying his statement.
Val, beneath his astonished gaze, became acutely aware that her rain-wet hair was disordered, her face flaming, and showing all the marks of recent and violent weeping.
“What is all this?” the Canon enquired rather sternly.
Valeria felt utterly incapable of replying.