He turned back at once. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. My name is Annabel, not Anna. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. Nothing is settled upon. “Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence.
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