“It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. ” Annabel pulled down her veil to hide the tears. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. He said nothing. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster.
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