To go to him, to console him! But she stirred not from her hiding place. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life, only to exchange it with marvellous facility for the violets of the Parisienne. Recurrently she heard: "I don't know; I really don't know.
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