Perhaps she was. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. Some friends who saw us dining together persist in alluding to her as Miss Annabel Pellissier. ” “For my infertility.
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