I know something about men. Some friends who saw us dining together persist in alluding to her as Miss Annabel Pellissier. “If you say so, my pet. ” She paused. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. He would always be her friend, too. But here was new music, tender and kindly and whimsical, that first roved to and fro in the mind and then cuddled up in the heart. The music confused and distracted her, and made her struggle against a feeling of intoxication.
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