“I did,” Anna answered. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. He knew very well that his muscles were flabby, and his nerve by no means what it should be. “At a boarding-house?” he gasped. For what could be more ironical than for Howard Spurlock to see himself grow famous under the name of Taber? The ambrosia of which he had so happily dreamt!—and this gall and wormwood! He stood up and rapped his pipe on the rail. “I wonder if there is anything wrong with my manners,” she said. More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London.
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