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" "Twenty pounds," rejoined Mrs. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. Here was a hole as wide as a church-door. “Cheveney!” she repeated. His smile faded. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. Annabel looked up and down the empty street, and then turned to her sister. “You know nothing about the stage. . Ruth drank in these intellectual controversies, storing away facts.
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