“Once or twice. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. Would to God I had. “How dare you? You are trying to kidnap my babies!” Clotilde demanded. How could you draw the curtain aside which hides the great and holy places of life—you, who have never loved?” “You have become French to the core,” she murmured. And here, we may be permitted to offer an observation upon the peculiar and unaccountable influence which ladies of a shrewish turn so frequently exercise over—we can scarcely, in this case, say—their lords and masters; an influence which seems not merely to extend to the will of the husband, but even to his inclinations. She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. He was not particularly grateful for the present situation.
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