There was one verse that haunted and mocked her. “I wonder if I’ve been properly brought up. To-night all London believes that he was your husband. “This stirs one. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. “Please don’t,” she said. “He does not come here,” she exclaimed, quickly. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. “I do not like to seem inhospitable, Anna,” she said hesitatingly. I'd do anything for Thames Darrell.
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