She was only a few yards from the door, but lacked the courage to rise and fly. Teenagers buzzed about her newly discovered talent for the violin in the same sentences as they gossiped about her torrid police scandal and a lost mother who remained in the deep shadows of murder mystery. She was faint from hunger, her head spinning into dizziness, the blood madness readying for battle. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum. End of Project Gutenberg's Anna the Adventuress, by E.
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