“My dear Anna,” he answered. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. And when they got to Covent Garden Ramage secured one of the little upper boxes, and they came into it as the overture began. A moment more and he would have been crushed beneath the ponderous board, when a slight but strong arm arrested its descent. “Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. ‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well. ” He fumed. ‘I knew you would be furious. I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley.
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