Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. He had done it. The stranger turned his head at the sound. “You will go and see her,” he begged. He went to the door. On the other hand the two young men who sat on either side of Anna were already throwing murderous glances at the newcomer. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Besides, by the time they were off his hands, old McClintock would be dropping in to have his liver renovated.
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