He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. The whole of that relationship persisted in remaining obscure. I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you. Little by little, she stopped hating him. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire. Whatever he did, she was bound to scream. No doubt that was due to his helplessness.
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