"I've seen him some years ago, I believe," answered Wood; "and, though he must be much changed by this time, I dare say I should know him again. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors. You lie about your past all the time and you know it. She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve. He had reacted by pushing her away, disgust and frustration on his face. Anna, in her strange striking way, was radiantly beautiful.
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