. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. “I cannot part with you. ” “It is for your good—your good only I am thinking,” he declared. And though I say it that shouldn't say it, no man can tie a better knot. “The truth!” Annabel bent over her and whispered in her sister’s ear. Come home alone. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. .
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