She still had her letter of credit. Stanley. Annabel a murderess! It was not possible. Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible. One only. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. That same adventurousness that had already buoyed her through crises that would have overwhelmed any normally feminine girl with shame and horror now became uppermost again. She saw herself building up a life upon that —a life restrained, kindly, beautiful, a little pathetic and altogether dignified; a life of great disciplines and suppressions and extensive reserves.
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