The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. There were moments when she thought of turning upon this man and talking to him. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. The other individual, who was a little in advance, was concealed from the stranger's view. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect.
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