You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. She decided to call in the help of Teddy Widgett, or, failing him, of one of his sisters. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. His build was medium, he would never 5 tower over his peers, yet his shoulders were broadening, betrayed by an undeveloped set of pectoral muscles underneath his button-down shirt that she could tell frustrated him. Drink the toast, Jack.
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