” “It was exceedingly wrong of you,” Anna declared. ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. You give her a daub here and there where the rust shows. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. ‘You must think me a fool, mademoiselle. Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead. If I might take the liberty, Sir John,” he added, with a humorous gleam in his eyes, “I should like to congratulate you upon your tie. "It's like enough, I dare say," rejoined Sheppard.
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