She often found herself absorbed by watching the tall grass undulate from the cave’s central doorway as solitary hunters prowled for buffalo and stag on the plain. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink. "I'll make a sketch, too," he said. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. That is good. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals.
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