It was Annabel who spoke. She had discussed the general question of supplies with the helpful landlady. And he unsheathed his sword. ‘Do not beg my pardon. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. Never mind. She leaned back in her chair. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. "It won't do to betray the officer," he muttered. If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask. K-kimble, sir,’ stammered the lad. “She must go her own way. E.
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