. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. I had to go at a moment’s notice. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park.
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