Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. In her usual style, she interviewed him for his life and was pleased that he liked nothing more than to talk about himself. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. Anna looked at her, startled. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. "That's false!" cried Mrs. I couldn’t help the thought.
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