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“Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. ” She glared at him balefully. At length, about three o'clock, as the first glimmer of dawn became visible through the barred casements of the round-house, the rattling of bolts and chains at the outer door told that some one was admitted. It was Annabel who caught at the paper. “How I am to earn enough sous for my dinner to-morrow—or failing that, what I can sell. "How long shall I be here?" he asked. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly.
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