But I don’t care; I haven’t a spark of shame. I speak no harm of her. Let’s go up to my room. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. At last the panel swung back into the library. She was a very elegant young woman, slightly taller perhaps than her sister, and with an air of reserved strength underneath her quiet face and manner which Annabel may have lacked.
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