“Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. “What ought you to do?” He began to produce his knowledge of the world for her benefit, jerkily and allusively, and with a strong, rank flavor of “savoir faire. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. " "You are very kind, Sir," returned the widow, "but I require no support. She entered the kitchen. Anna hailed a bus.
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