" CHAPTER XVIII. ” He pushed her a dozen yards along the greasy pavement with flat, well-trained hands that there seemed to be no opposing. “I wonder if you give me a thought. At last—I told a story. ” Michelle answered quickly. It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as she pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the most favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her sylphlike figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow of her countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting sun falling upon her through the panes of the little dormer-window, that seemed to the youth inexpressibly beautiful. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. Now that she was his, to make or mar, she presented an extraordinary fascination. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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