” A spot of colour flared in Anna’s cheek as she glanced towards the speaker. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. But in that case, why the raging jealousy about Madame having taken her place. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. This one too she read. “Never—but, by Jove, you had a narrow escape,” Ennison exclaimed. He saw her, dripping with rosy pearls, rise out of the lagoon in the dawn light: he saw her flashing to and fro among the coco palms in the moonshine: he saw her breasting the hurricane, her body as full of grace and beauty as the Winged Victory of the Louvre. That old chap has a remarkable range in reading.
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