“Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. Manning?” she asked. My friend the doctor suspected it, and so do I. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. " "I've been wondering, too. ‘You are stubborn like a mule. ” He said jealously. .
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