It had been Ann Veronica’s lot as the youngest child to live in a home that became less animated and various as she grew up. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. Then a surge of rage welled up. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit.
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