"What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. “I thought I was just up against Morningside Park and father, but it’s the whole order of things—the whole blessed order of things. There'll be a fall of above twelve foot o' water, and think o' that on a night as 'ud blow a whole fleet to the devil. “And you?” “Same thing. Father— dead. Annabel watched her with wide-open, terrified eyes.
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