He stooped to kiss her, but little Anne threw her arms around him with such a tempestuous embrace that he raised her, clinging to his neck, to his breast.
“If only nothing ever changed!” she sobbed.
“What shall I bring you from Rome, dear child? I’ll be back when May comes to Cleavedge.”
Little Anne traced a tiny cross on his forehead with her thumbnail.
“Only you. Take care of yourself and bring me you,” she said. “I shall study hard’s I can to be ready to help you when you come home. I’m going to learn to write on a typewriter and make squiggles so you can tell me your works like Anne! But if you have time I’d just love to have you pray for me in the catacombs!”
“How I wish I could take you with me! It would be worth anything to show you St. Peter’s, little Anne!” said Richard.
“Oh, yes!” little Anne breathlessly agreed.
Then she added, with one of her exalted moods suddenly sweeping her beyond the grief of parting and the desire for Rome:
“But every place is the same, if you’ve got God!”
“What a valedictory to a theatrical triumph!” exclaimed Richard.