"You must take it to Sir Rowland Trenchard's in Southampton Fields. A detective will be here in a few moments to make inquiries into this affair. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. ” “It is an accident,” he answered. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. When she slipped off of it her head started to bob, filled with air. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. But it was only when that damned scoundrel nearly spitted you in the chapel—’ He broke off and, to her intense satisfaction she saw he was not as much in command of himself as he would have her believe.
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