" Spurlock grew limp in his chair. If you'd read your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death at Jonathan's door,—and with reason too, as I can testify. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. But the general was turning on him, the hint of emotion wiped from his lined features. He was all alone, too. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. Sheppard, pressing her hand to her temples. E.
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