The little old lady struck like a projectile upon the resounding chest of the foremost of these, and then Ann Veronica had got past and was ascending the steps. She had done forever with the Age of Chivalry, and her own base adaptations of its traditions to the compromising life. ‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’ Her eyes flew open. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool.
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