Fancying they were alone, Sir Rowland threw aside his cloak, and produced a heavy bag of money, which he flung upon the table; and, when Wild had feasted his greedy eyes sufficiently upon its golden contents, he handed him a pocketbook filled with notes. “Call me Annabel. I don’t think women need to trouble about political questions. After all, that was life. You are you. “Maybe I should have stayed home. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse.
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