‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. She regarded the young man coldly. Do you know, Annabel, that you are my wife. Mr. I’ve muddled all this business. Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady’s companion?” “I think,” Anna said, “that the less you know about me the better. “Too much sensibility and too cold a heart. She thought of her aunt and that purse that was dropped on the table, and of many troublesome and ill-requited kindnesses; she thought of the help of the Widgetts, of Teddy’s admiration; she thought, with a new-born charity, of her father, of Manning’s conscientious unselfishness, of Miss Miniver’s devotion. Left alone, Jonathan lighted a lamp, and, opening the trap-door, descended the secret stairs.
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