Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. Bullding is going to. Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. She had pushed aside her azure veil, taken off her snow-glasses, and sat smiling under her hand at the shining glories—the lit cornices, the blue shadows, the softly rounded, enormous snow masses, the deep places full of quivering luminosity—of the Taschhorn and Dom. She had thought to wear it now, since she must look more the demoiselle. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. You’re a good friend.
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