Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. “If you come a step nearer to me,” she said, “I will smash every glass on this table. Alors, one must steel oneself. A door in this house opened upon the yard. Bring me food, a man, hurry!” She placed the stone back over the crypt to hide the evidence of what she had uncovered. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. There must be persons tender and loving in this world.
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