“What did it matter?” she cried. Just as Hogarth got to the door, the turnkey stopped him. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. The knowledge breathed into her heart a satisfying warmth. To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone. Oh, it is unbearable. I am fairly well hardened in iniquity—your iniquity, Annabel—but I decline to have a husband thrust upon me.
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