But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. ” “Not long ago,” she said, “you left me in anger, partly because of this exchange of identities between Annabel and myself. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. Horribly skinny he was, and short too. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. ‘You were his daughter. "If I could only make you realize what you have done," he said, lamely. You understand me, I’m sure.
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