There was a certain air of forced fortuity in his manner. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. ‘What is this proof?’ ‘I will not tell you. “What a hideous repertoire! If you are in earnest about wanting to earn money, why on earth don’t you accept an engagement here?” “An engagement?” she queried. She's not mischievous—and besides she's chained, and can't reach you.
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