If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. Springing to his feet in an ecstasy of terror, he stumbled, and had well nigh realized his worst apprehensions. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. E. “Believe me, I know. “Lucy Albert, sir.
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