Stanley regarded his neighbor’s clean-shaven face almost warily. "Well, Jack," said the prize-fighter, in a rough, but friendly voice, and with a cutand-thrust abrupt manner peculiar to himself; "how are you, lad, eh? Sorry to see you here. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. E.
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