I told you no good would come of it. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. The vengeance of the assailants did not stop here. His name is John. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Through that she had to go. It was he who saw them first coming down the room—Annabel in a wonderful white satin gown in front, and Sir John stiff, unbending, disapproving, bringing up the rear. “I believe after all it’s coming out!” said Miss Stanley. Finally Lucy replied.
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