“But I am your husband,” he said. Anna failed in her painting, our money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. He grabbed her hair viciously and whispered loudly into her tear-streaked face. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. "What do you think of your nephew, Sir Rowland?" whispered Jonathan, who sat with his back towards Thames, so that his features were concealed from the youth's view.
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