“Ann Veronica is looking very well, don’t you think?” he said, a little awkwardly. It consisted of a full-dress coat of brown flowered velvet, laced with silver; a waistcoat of white satin, likewise richly embroidered; shoes with red heels, and large diamond buckles; pearlcoloured silk stockings with gold clocks; a muslin cravat, or steen-kirk, as it was termed, edged with the fine point lace; ruffles of the same material, and so ample as almost to hide the tips of his fingers; and a silver-hilted sword. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Anna raised her eyebrows at the sight of him. Only her ungloved fingers, and the arms in their long tight sleeves as she held the heavy gun aloft, bore any sign of stiffness. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration.
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