“Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. And if you dare to produce any kind of weapon at all,’ he added, taking a plain brass-barrelled little pistol from his own pocket and levelling it, ‘I will have no compunction in blowing off your head, you madcap female. ‘The poor girl was thrust into a convent to become a nun. Kneebone, I came hither as your guest. “Soul to soul.
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