She wrote it down. And even if that,’ she added bitterly, ‘he must be also a person of a disposition extremely mad, that he can go against the family. “Annabel! God in Heaven, it is Annabel!” She did not speak. In the recess beside the fireplace were some open bookshelves. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. Life is so good.
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