It was one afternoon a day or two later, and Ann, was sitting in a sunny
corner of the garden, idly dipping into the books which Cara had lent her.
The previous day the weather had been cloudy and rather cool, and Maria,
the martinet, had sternly vetoed Ann's modest suggestion that she was now
sufficiently recovered to go outdoors again.
"My dear life! And take your death of cold 'pon top of bein' near drowned?"
Maria had demanded witheringly. "I wish the Almighty had weighed you in
a bit more common sense when He set about making you, Miss Ann--and no
disrespect intended to Him!"
She flounced away indignantly. But on this balmy summer's afternoon not
even the kindly old despot of the Cottage could find any objections to such
a mild form of dissipation, and accordingly Ann was basking contentedly in
the hot sun, thankful at last to be released from the devoted but somewhat
exacting ministrations of Maria.
She felt deliciously lazy--too lazy even to concentrate on any of the
novels which Cara had brought her. She had no particular craving at the
moment either to be thrilled by adventures or harrowed by the partings of
lovers. But a slim volume of verse held her attention intermittently.
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