“Anna,” he pleaded, “be merciful. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. \" He leaned at a steeper pitch. Sc. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. You tried bravely enough to hide your preference, to look at us all with the same eyes, to speak to us in the same tone. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room.
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