Part 2 Ann Veronica Stanley was twenty-one and a half years old. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword. He thrust out a rhetorical hand. “What was that?” she asked sharply. . He stood up, apparently intending to put an arm about her, but she stepped back from him quickly. 216 “Please, get dressed. I’m sick of this town and I can’t wait to get out. The gallows has groaned for him for years.
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