“It is very good of you to come and see me, my dear sister,” Annabel remarked, throwing herself into a low chair, and clasping her hands over her head. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. There, in a little tea and sweetstuff shop, she bought and consumed slowly and absent-mindedly the insufficient nourishment that is natural to her sex on such occasions. It was her job to keep the house as neat as a pin, up to the high standard that Sheila expected, being a nurse. She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. But oh, how weary I am! I know. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired.
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