“You yourself have decided that—apart from the question of Annabel. They sat down, McClintock reaching for a lump of sugar which he began munching. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. It was just such a bedroom as she would have chosen for herself. His safety must be looked to. She reminded him of his linnet, when he gave the bird the freedom of the house: it became filled with a wild gaiety which bordered on madness. The light would betray us.
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