Brendon. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. Mr. E below. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. ” He reeled out of the room. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. Heaven forbid.
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