She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest. A silver necklace enhanced the dusky beauty of her neck. But he dismissed that because then she would ask her lover and not him all these things. Good night. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. “You don’t propose, do you,” she said quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?” “You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. “God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. And would you mind hurrying a little. Lucy followed her.
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