He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. “They have no plans for us. H’m. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. His mind was busy with a résumé of yesterday's unusual events. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. But I'd a mind to try whether you really loved him as much as you pretended.
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