From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. Martin came to the door, looking radiant and relieved. Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;—now ascending, now descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his path, at the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived in Fleet Street. What do you think, Annabel?” “I don’t think they would,” she admitted.
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