You are the woman I love, Anna. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. Yet she took with her an uneasy consciousness that in this affair might lie the germs of future trouble. “She is living there now,” she remarked. "You've given him a broken head, I perceive.
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