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That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. “You met no one upon the stairs, or saw no one leave the flats?” “No one,” Anna answered firmly. John’s father brought down a violin from a high closet shelf. ‘That’s my pet name.
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