” “Not long ago,” she said, “you left me in anger, partly because of this exchange of identities between Annabel and myself. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. I was helpless. Then he took me out to Monteaux, on a motor. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. I didn’t! I didn’t! After all—” For a time her mind ran on daintiness and its defensive restraints as though it was the one desirable thing.
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