"I've made no distinction between you, hitherto," answered Wood; "nor shall I do so, unless I'm compelled. ‘It is nothing at all of the kind. And yet, when you offered to help, it was what is to come that I had in mind. I’m not mad that he has eyes for you instead of me, not mad at all. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. It's sixteen days down, with The Tigress. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. The rest she meant to keep for her immediate necessities.
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