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‘Gerald, what have you been about? Dorothée tells me that you were flirting outrageously with Madame Valade on Monday night. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. “The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned. It was still raining heavily, and profoundly dark. That is why I called myself Anna. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield.
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