Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. She knew that her voice was superior to Annabel’s, and she had no further qualms. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. "You're right Jack," he said, after a pause, during which he contemplated the picture with the most fixed attention: "this must have been my father!" "No doubt of it," answered Sheppard; "only compare it with Winny's drawing, and you'll find they're as like as two peas in a pod.
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