"Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper. ‘Didn’t mean it, love. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. No, not one little bit. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. “Only it is much too late for you to be out alone. You must—you shall be mine. He was caressing an idea. Later, she would sew it on. See what your misconduct has deprived you of —see what you might have been.
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