" "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. ” “You are wonderful!” she murmured. Do you understand?” “I do not,” he answered. Winifred screamed. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. “The truth!” Annabel bent over her and whispered in her sister’s ear. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent.
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