Suppose our proper place is a shrine. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. While there's life there's hope. “Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind.
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