Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. And Miss Miniver fell discussing whether Goopes or Bernard Shaw or Tolstoy or Doctor Tumpany or Wilkins the author had the more powerful and perfect mind in existence at the present time. If you attempt to play the traitor, you will do so at the hazard of your life. I am guilty practically of the impertinence of coming to ask you whether I misunderstood your sister. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd.
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