Capes went first, finding footholds and, where the drops in the strataedges came like long, awkward steps, placing Ann Veronica’s feet. He learnt that his sister was privately married—the name or rank of her husband could not be ascertained—and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given birth to a son. Sheppard. She was gone. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. “I came to London,” said Ann Veronica, “rather because of my own difficulty. At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. Then the inner door opened abruptly.
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