The pistol was his own, it is true, but it was one which was taken from him when he forced his way in upon me before. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. One thing may be a necessary collateral of the others. As O'Higgins signed the hotel register, his keen glance took in the latest signatures. “I wish he had,” she said. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. “I remember you now,” he said. Cheveney was another Paris friend, was he?” she asked.
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