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Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. Bête, she told herself fiercely. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. I don’t defend it. Afraid, no doubt, he thought grimly, that her other visitor would leave. Forgetting the dark thoughts of his last brush with the girl, he dropped the dagger back in his pocket, quickened his pace, and went back into the house to look for his hostess. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. If he did resemble me, I shouldn't care about him. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas.
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