” “It’s dreadful for you to be here,” he said, indicating the yellow presence of the first fog of the year without, “but your aunt told me something of what had happened. Montague Hill?” Annabel put her hand suddenly to her throat and steadied herself with the back of a chair. He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. She was inclined to think that perhaps for a girl the converse of his method was the case; an older man, a man beyond the range of anything “nonsensical,” was, perhaps, the most interesting sort of friend one could meet. "He stands before you," rejoined her son. “Is that you, Nigel?” she asked.
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