” Anna looked for a moment steadily at her sister, whose face was still averted. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. And I need not tell you that her hotel bill is running on the same as yours. Answering him was agonizing. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. "Then, the story of his death was false. There's one person in the house whom I wouldn't frighten for the world. Anna hailed a bus. . ‘I think you know my affianced husband. . “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. You could not have aided and assisted us more effectively by trying to drown yourself in the sea. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood.
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