She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. He was there concealed, waiting her return. She wanted to think. ‘That is good. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. ‘Say it. “I suppose I shall have to write an answer. In rushed Mr. Annabel is my only sister, you know, almost my only relative.
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