Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt; but it was beauty, nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as bright, her complexion as blooming, and her figure (if a little more buxom) quite as captivating as when he led her to the altar some twenty years ago. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. Mr. Pity you aren’t under my command. “It is very good of you to come and see me, my dear sister,” Annabel remarked, throwing herself into a low chair, and clasping her hands over her head. It was after all a momentary affair. I thought then perhaps you didn’t care, that you were like so many of them. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. I might as well be at Morningside Park. You take them. The place for reading.
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