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He turned. “I saw you in a sort of sloping, slippery place, holding on by your hands and slipping. . ” Annabel no longer attempted to conceal her emotion. It is abominable—” “What is the use of keeping up this note of indignation, Ann Veronica? Here I am! I am your lover, burning for you. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. ‘But it is entirely myself,’ she exclaimed aloud.
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