Hill again—alive. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. “Annabel at last,” he shouted. “I had the pleasure of—er—meeting you more than once, I believe. He needed to laugh, but only she laughed as he chuckled weakly. She bent down. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside. It does not work, I still suffer madness. . But I give you this warning, and let it sink in. .
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