Chapter IX BRENDON’S LUCK Anna sat in a chair in her room and sighed. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. But his astonishment would have been great indeed had he known that not even her father had ever caressed her, either with lips or with hands. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. There was a girlfriend who was mentally ill. He left his companion in the midst of a glowing eulogy of Bastien Leparge, and boldly intercepted his hostess as she moved from one group to join another. ” “But waive that point.
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