“I think we have,” he answered, gravely, and took her in his arms, and smoothed her hair from her forehead, and very tenderly kissed her lips. "Put it under my pillow," he said. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. ‘You see, unlike you, mademoiselle, your cavalier here would not wish to be arrested. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent.
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