CHAPTER XXVII His idea, cleverly planned, was to shatter her resistance, to confound her suddenly by striking her mind with words which would rob her coherent thought. “See you to-night, I suppose?” He sauntered off. Lord, I am sixty. Hill lost a little of his truculency. You are the woman I love, Anna. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. He could neither stifle nor deaden that.
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