Anna was still holding her cigarette between her fingers. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. “I have always,” she admitted calmly, “taken a certain amount of interest in Annabel’s future. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. Paintings sold off the walls. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. Sheppard's habitation terminated a row of old ruinous buildings, called Wheeler's Rents; a dirty thoroughfare, part street, and part lane, running from Mint Street, through a variety of turnings, and along the brink of a deep kennel, skirted by a number of petty and neglected gardens in the direction of Saint George's Fields. ” He dropped his eye-glass with a clatter.
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