"Your business, Sir?" returned the other, stiffly. Book. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away. " "Very. Montague Hill?” Annabel put her hand suddenly to her throat and steadied herself with the back of a chair. A bumper round, gentlemen. Rank ingratitude, I call it. "All I want is to be happy!" she said aloud, as if she were asking for something of such ordinary value that God would readily accord it to her because there was so little demand for the commodity. ’ Trodger frowned, and chewed his lip. But in a moment she believed she understood. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves.
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