E. Ann Veronica sat down in the other arm-chair and darned badly for a minute or so. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. “Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. I didn’t understand. Spurlock slept on. One glance through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient. Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint.
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