” Annabel pulled down her veil to hide the tears. " "But, Lord, man!—don't you ever get lonesome?" "Don't you?" "I'm too busy. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. Hidden menace; a prescience of something dreadful about to happen.
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