“The fool I have been!” he cried; and now speech was coming to him. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. The entire place was a masterpiece of wooden carving, a design of interleaving carried throughout. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. Besides, she had admitted her identity. ” Annabel laughed derisively and took up her book.
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