I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. "There he is!" cried Winifred, starting up, joyfully, and proving by the exclamation that her thoughts were dwelling upon one subject only. He drew a little breath of relief. He brought home a few waverers to talk to them where they had no chance of getting away. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows. Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. “Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. Hastening to the spot where he had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields,—for he was fearful of encountering the hostile party,—till he reached the Edgeware Road. It was a dead calm. Ireton and his friends to taste it.
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