Is all that folly done with—for ever?” Annabel shivered ever so slightly. Some day I may forgive you; but not now. We close the chapter. “The man who was found dead in your sister’s room was named Hill?” “It is the man,” she answered. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around.
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