“You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. He took a sip of punch and commenced his relation. “In a sense—yes. “Your mother was a Gypsy. Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships. “Everything will follow,” she said. She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from.
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