Manning’s handwriting had an air of being clear without being easily legible; it was large and rather roundish, with a lack of definition about the letters and a disposition to treat the large ones as liberal-minded people nowadays treat opinions, as all amounting to the same thing really—a yearssmoothed boyish rather than an adult hand. “A thick-set, coarse-looking young man, Anna!” she exclaimed in a hoarse excited whisper. Come now, I am very glad to see you again so soon, mademoiselle whatever-your-name-is. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. She moaned, having failed in her mission to find her mother and her God. Peste, where was her handkerchief? She remembered then that it had been lost in the struggle with Gerald.
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