E. Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint. The man pulled up. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. Then fury claimed her and she could no longer pretend. She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve. Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for her sister’s return. Within ten minutes he had read much more than had greeted his eye. She looked away.
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