“I’ve got it. Beautiful is the girl of twelve,—who is neither child nor woman, but something between both, something more exquisite than either! Such was the fairy creature presented to Thames Darrell, under the following circumstances. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. As it is, I'm not sorry for the blunder. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation. The hand that had been clenched lay open, relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket. “Better,” said Ann Veronica, with an unreal alacrity. The farmer had become obsessed with her and asked her to marry.
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