Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. ” “Annabel knew where I lived,” Anna continued slowly. ‘Well?’ she said. “It is no good playing a game. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. That was the true miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then, when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast them aside for new imaginings. ” Mr. M. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue.
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