He rested his brow on his hand and conveyed magnificent tragedy by his pose. Good riddance. The likeness was ridiculous. He seemed to be thinking hard. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. "Something more than whisky did that. I hope you will always remember——” Annabel held out her hands with a little cry of protest. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill.
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