Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. Again having recourse to the centre-bit,—for Winifred's door was locked,—Jack had nearly cut out a panel, when a sudden outcry was raised in the carpenter's chamber. “I believe she’s dressing up-stairs—now. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent.
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