“You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. Of course, why not? She would be honest, anyhow! She turned her eyes to Manning. ‘Looks like it. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. “Ever yours, “ANNABEL.
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