Anna, who had sung the first verse of her song, looked around the house, a little surprised at the absence of the applause which had never yet failed her. “It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. Or I should have made love to you long ago. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin.
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