The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. She turned on the lad with her, who was visibly relieved. I think not, Annabel. “Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked. 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. But he sobered instantly as he recollected that O'Higgins had found Spurlock once. “You yourself have decided that—apart from the question of Annabel. The doctor would naturally offer a hundred objections; he might seriously interfere; so he must be forestalled.
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