The streets were deserted as they drove past familiar sites. Cathy chimed. The doctor nodded to him curtly. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. “You seem to forget that my sister is—married. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. As we turned the corner of the street, I noticed that the electric light was burning in this room. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. But she certainly remembered that when she was a little girl he sometimes wore tennis flannels, and also rode a bicycle very dexterously in through the gates to the front door.
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