She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna.
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