Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. How she needed him! Next moment, she had wrenched open the door, and was confronting her guard. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. But one changes the style of one's clothes yearly. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said.
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