"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. . “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. ” A dull flush burned upon his cheeks. Ennison listened, and he forgot where he was. ’ Then she jammed her hat on her head all anyhow and ran from the room. “Don’t come nearer!” she said. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. But tell me how have you escaped from the confinement in which you were placed—come and sit by me—here—upon the bed—give me your hand—and tell me all about it. How do you like the story?” “Go on,” said Ann Veronica, a little hoarsely, “tell me all of it. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. The place for reading. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped.
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