Annabel turned on the electric light and made her way into the sitting-room. She was flushed, and her eyes were bright and angry; her breath came sobbing, and her hair was all abroad in wandering strands of black. ToC London, at the period of this history, boasted only a single bridge. She wrapped a leg around him. At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day—Sunday—having spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she set out homewards. He was snoring stupidly. He will be some time in this comatose state. She left for good after he fell asleep. Then most horribly she was clasped about the waist from behind and lifted from the ground. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel.
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