For a few minutes all was silent. The light would betray us. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. The air was pungent and leaden. (“Good job. “I suppose most people’s letters are queer. He looked fiercely and inquiringly from one to the other of his companions; but, though both of them were excessively frightened, neither appeared guilty. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. ‘I should not dream of forcing my attentions on you.
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