” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. She further suspected that he might find a servant to dally with in the meantime, if he had not already. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. ‘I do not wish to hear any more reasons so foolish, so do not trouble to think of them. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves.
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