He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. It’s no good hiding it any more. I may tell him, at any rate, that you will see him?” “I shall like to see him,” Anna answered. "What's the matter?" he cried. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. “I can’t conceive what you want. But to go courting a slave-girl, at the risk of physical hurt! A shudder of distaste wrinkled her shoulders. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. The cheating of the boys in the stores ceased.
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