Chapter IX BRENDON’S LUCK Anna sat in a chair in her room and sighed. “Now I’ll have what I want from you, wife. You know I call that positively wicked. Perhaps you will now explain the alarm. You thanked me tersely, then, barely noticing my existence you went right back to your conversation! I was somewhat crushed but my spirits were lifted when the butcher revealed who your husband-to-be was. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. "Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles.
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