‘And now,’ he said, drawing Madame to the seat, and contriving to sit close enough that his anatomy touched hers at several points, ‘let us talk about you, madame. What do you think, Annabel?” “I don’t think they would,” she admitted. I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. It is good sometimes to walk with a man who can look God squarely in the face, as you can. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure.
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