She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. I believe I am doomed to be an old maid. You don’t know. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Snatching-up his pistols, he rushed to the door, but to his horror found it fastened. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. I'm ashamed to say that I was too much terrified to scream out—but ran and hid myself. Miss Ellicot, for instance, considers me a most improper person. In the midst of this light stood a young woman. The villain has enjoyed his security too long.
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