Her heartbeat quickened. She evolved a dim image of herself cooped up in a house under the benevolent shadow of Mr. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. A pretty piece. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. My name is Annabel, not Anna. Kneebone, on his return from Manchester. Then for a time she forgot the Fadden affair altogether. ” “I shall have no objection at all,” Anna assured him. He ignored her protests in order to pursue some impressive line of his own.
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