I would not have him know—now—for the world. ” The detective turned again to Anna. “I suppose most people’s letters are queer. By-the-bye,” he added, in a suddenly altered tone, “I hope, I trust—that you have not entered into any arrangements with any one here?” “I—oh no!” Anna said, a little faintly. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. Ann Veronica looked up at him and found him regarding her with eyes that were almost woebegone, and into which, indeed, he was trying to throw much more expression than they could carry. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. There were two of them.
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