Some friends who saw us dining together persist in alluding to her as Miss Annabel Pellissier. Remote little Ann Veronica! She would never know the heart of that child again! That child had loved fairy princes with velvet suits and golden locks, and she was in love with a real man named Capes, with little gleams of gold on his cheek and a pleasant voice and firm and shapely hands. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. “You, anyhow, don’t deserve it,” he said. He was an odd one, especially for a young man. She stopped eating. Wood in the deepest mourning. Ann Veronica sat back with a sigh of relief.
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