I am sorry to seem to hurt you, but all I say is for your good. Annabel! Annabel!” His voice became a shriek. ” He sat for a moment, absorbing. Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict.
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