Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. “I believe that you are right,” he said softly. Accordingly, having given Wood such directions as he thought necessary for his guidance, and received a handsome gratuity in return for his services, he departed. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. "What's that to you?" demanded Jonathan, gruffly. .
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