” “I am very glad,” he answered, in a low tone. He reached the top floor and ran down the corridor to the little dressing room at the end where he had lost her before. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. Her knees shook, her breath came fast, she almost felt the lurid effect of those tiny patches of rouge upon her pallor-stricken cheeks. . ’ ‘Certainly that is true. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. And as he walked by her side they began a wrangle that was none the less pleasant to Ann Veronica because it served to banish a disagreeable preoccupation. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. "She travelled alone; and she is the purest woman God ever permitted to inhabit the earth.
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