Anna sprang to her feet and made for the dressing-room door. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. These cogitations were interrupted by the entrance of the doctor. O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. ‘You have not the right. “But, forgive me, you are tired. I’m that shamed to confess it, miss, but it were then I thought of Martha. ” Anna’s eyes were a little dim as she poured out her coffee, and the laugh she attempted was not altogether a success.
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