” “You are jealous,” she declared contemptuously. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. " "I will—I will," replied Wood hastily. Several people were passed out on the sectional sofa, and muffled noises emanated from other rooms indicating that the party’s embers were still smoldering, but John was nowhere to be seen.
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