Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. "At a thought. She was not quite clear how she should find it, but she felt she would. “Why, I do not know. " "My mind's made up," rejoined Jack, coldly,—"we part to-night.
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