She had been so young then. He was twenty-nine at the time, practically an old man. Even her debt to him was a triviality now. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. This man was apparently not sure whether he was Meysey Hill or not. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Ann Veronica watched her face, vaguely sympathizing with her, vaguely disliking her physical insufficiency and her convulsive movements, and the fine eyebrows were knit with a faint perplexity.
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