A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. Ennison’s signet-ring had cut nearly to the bone. “Steady on!” he cried. The telegram reminded Ann Veronica that she had no place for interviews except her bed-sitting-room, and she sought her landlady and negotiated hastily for the use of the ground floor parlor, which very fortunately was vacant. We can’t even protect them from themselves. Then she cursed herself for his eyes went to the letter and came back to her face.
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