"It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. Her belly was being touched, she felt her thighs caressed softly. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter’s jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. Even after this woman had gone, it seemed to Ruth that the room was kindlier than it had ever been. So far as I am concerned, I am just now a hopeless nonentity. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. Tell Bess to slip out, and I'll put on her cloak and hood.
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