“Anna! Thank God I have found you at last. Had she said the words aloud? He pulled her close and she nuzzled her head on his chest. She remained for a few moments standing as though listening to his retreating footsteps. I shall start at the bottom. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. ” Her answer was terse. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used.
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