She had never said anything so horrible to anyone in her life. “Oh yes,” said Miss Klegg; “I thought every one knew. There was a coffee equipage on the table, and some sandwiches, and the fire had been recently made up. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. “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. “Annabel!” He looked at her thoughtfully. Stanley went on, “but there are things— there are stories about Ramage.
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