"The only disguise I ever put on is a dress-suit, and I look as natural as a pig at a Mahomedan dinner. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. ” “And he sat at my table,” Annabel said bitterly, “and yet he did not know me. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release. She was enchanted by the beauty of the other girls, who were magically transformed into fairies and elves by makeup into seemingly unfamiliar yet glamorous new people.
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