"I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. Very well. Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. ” Annabel’s hand stole into his. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. When I found you, you were almost completely insane.
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