“Annabel,” she said brusquely. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. But she was disturbed, mysteriously disturbed. ‘It is all the fault of that lantern. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. Living’s just material. There must be real Valjeans, else how could authors write about them? Supposing some day she met one of these astonishing creators, who could make one cry and laugh and forget, who could thrill one with love and anger and tenderness? Most of us have witnessed carnivals. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. “Why did you lie to that man?” he asked fiercely. You have been seen loitering with suspicious intent in several places—Paddington, for instance—and I have no doubt at all that you were party to a break-in last week at Remenham House in Kent. Ramage—about the forty pounds. "Miss Enschede—such an odd name!—are you French?" "Oh, no. .
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