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The stranger with a bow returned to his table. CHAPTER XIX. She had recourse to the torn off strip of petticoat again, and blowing her nose with an air of determination, sniffed back the tears. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. Annabel saw it, and suddenly changed her tone. The young man desperately ill and the girl taking care of him! Of course, there could be only one ending to such a bout with liquor, and that ending had come perhaps suddenly but not surprisingly. Wild, he asserted, had robbed him of a large sum of money, and till it was restored he would never plead. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Maggot, bursting into a loud contemptuous laugh. There was one verse that haunted and mocked her. .
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