As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. “I came directly I was disengaged,” Anna answered. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. “Mr. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other. She got to the driveway and was semi-surprised to see that his car was gone. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. ” She chilled Ann Veronica a little by that last phrase, and yet the magnetism of her fellowship and enthusiasm was very strong; and it was pleasant to be made out a heroine after so much expostulation and so many secret doubts.
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