“Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. “I’ve thought about it. The girl regarded him with the face of a Sphinx. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. My name is Annabel, not Anna. But perhaps he was right not to tell you the truth. “It’s my fault.
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