“I know,” she said quietly, “that Paris, where she has been so much admired, is not a good place for her. I don’t care if you never tell me any of your secrets. " "No," answered the ruffian, moodily. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume.
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