Chapter XX ANNA’S SURRENDER “This is indeed a gala night,” said Ennison, raising his glass, and watching for a moment the golden bubbles. When she slipped off of it her head started to bob, filled with air. Vanity was a vice not just to be deprecated, but effectively strangled at birth. She fidgeted and looked away. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. But the relief from the strain of her immediate necessities was immense. Scarcely had it come to a halt, when a stalwart man shouldered his way, in spite of their opposition, through the lines of soldiery to the cart, and offered his large horny hand to the prisoner. "I don't know; I really don't know.
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