” “I think, Mr. He called a waiter. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. Rotten, and covered with a thick coat of dirt, the boards of the floor presented a very insecure footing; the bare walls were scored all over with grotesque designs, the chief of which represented the punishment of Nebuchadnezzar. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper. With a cry of distress, she dropped the pistol and flew after him, racing past him to the door. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them.
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