Anna stood looking down upon her sister with grave perturbed face. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. She attended to that, and then dismissed it as unimportant. A tarnish of constraint that had recently spread over her intercourse with Capes vanished again. Kneebone's man is in the shop," said Rachel; "he'll take it. But he's witty and amusing, and when reasonably drunk he can play the piano like a Paderewski. I cannot live without you, Anna.
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