“I wrote it for you. Got detained in the City, and——” Then he met the fixed, breathless gaze of those wonderful eyes from the other side of the table, and he, too, broke off in the middle of his sentence. Nothing would induce me to marry you, or any man at present. “Go on!” “People talked to you in Paris about us,” she continued, “about Anna the virtuous and Annabel the rake. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it.
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