Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage’s orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. Anna never knew whither it had led her— sometimes she had fears. It’s the sort of way a woman always does gloss over her ethical positions. She watched for five minutes until he completely disappeared over Pine Crest, past the yellow fire hydrant and the dented stop sign.
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