Annabel thought, and thought again. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. "I read those stories. She liked the animated eagerness of his manner. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. Her mouth was once more covered as they left the second floor guest saloon and headed for the back stairs.
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