A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. Gazing into each other's eyes with new-found rapture, neither observed the sudden appearance in the doorway of an elderly woman in travel-stained linen. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. CHAPTER XX. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. I’m going to tell you things plainly. ‘You usually do,’ he said lightly.
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