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Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. I spent agonizing weeks wandering Mantua in search of you, finally arriving at the idea of asking someone who you were. She reached for the door handle. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way. Anna sprang lightly away across the street. "There it is!" cried Sir James, eagerly. Sheppard. A Madame Valade and her husband.
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