70 <9> A MARRIAGE, PART II She dreamt of the inn they had stopped at after her suicide attempt, the flea-ridden hostel her husband had angrily toted her to after the incident at the country house. Anna was not “Alcide” of the “Ambassador’s,” whose subtly demure smile and piquant glances had called him to her side from the moment of their first meeting. Before proceeding to Wych Street, he called at the Lodge to see how matters were going on, and found Mrs. She had lost her sense of direction, and was among unfamiliar streets. One transgression; he was sure of that. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. Will you let your servant call me a hansom,” she continued, opening the door before he could reach her side. “You were there, were you?” He laughed a little impatiently. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing.
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