She held up the lamp. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. . At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. You might be able to use the picture some day. Once more breaking through the hedge he took to the fields. What had Brewis Charvill to say to that, Gerald?’ ‘He had nothing to say to it. His literary instincts were reviving. He declined to come in. Wood heard the cry. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now.
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