Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. Don’t look so frightened. ’ She set down her glass with a snap. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. They tracked the fugitive to the Mint; but, like hounds at fault, they here lost all scent of their prey. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project.
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