"This Enschede—the missioner. She shook her head, almost breaking a smile. ” “I had to,” she repeated. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. ’ Martha got up with a swish of her black habit. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. Well, he was executed for murder. She had no inkling of that insupportable wrong. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered.
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