It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. "Don't mention it," returned Wood, in the conciliatory tone of one who admits he has been in the wrong; "your explanation is perfectly satisfactory. “Anna! Thank God I have found you at last. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. ” She replied. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. The Tigress is second-hand, built for coast-trade. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories.
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