She was a woman magnificently planned, of stature not to be diminished by the highest pedestal.

A figure fit for a throne, a niche, a shrine.

Edith could see the dear little downy feathers sprouting on Anne's shoulder-blades, and the infant aureole playing in her hair.
"You're a saint," said Edith.
"I am not," said Anne, while her pale cheek glowed with the flattery.
"Of course you are," said Edith, "or you could never have put up with me." Whereupon Anne kissed her.
"And I may tell Walter what you've said ?" It was thus that she spared Anne's mortal pride.

She knew how it would shrink from telling him.
Anne went down to Majendie in the garden and sent him to his sister.

They returned to the house by the open window of his study.