“You don’t propose, do you,” she said quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?” “You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. If you were ten years younger, you'd have me wondering. He won’t be in uniform.
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