" "But Wild still lives," cried Wood. “You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. The ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. It was clear that he meant to kiss her before she exited the car. By rights I ought to have arrested her days ago. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days.
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