” Annabel had been lying curled up on the lounge, the personification of graceful animal ease. Little things, almost impalpable, had happened to justify that doubt; something in his manner had belied his words. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. Man or woman. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. ‘Still more would I be so if he had come himself to tell me this. She struggled against it quite uselessly. My friend the doctor suspected it, and so do I. Spurling, who did not dare to exhibit her satisfaction otherwise than by privately pinching the arm of her expected husband. It's public opinion.
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