“Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. The Procession to Tyburn 462 XXXII. She laid her hand upon his arm. Not alone with her, that’s sure. Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue.
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