For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent. You'll be wasting his time. It was a beautiful place that she had found, a round cave by a small stream. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. He stood back and held her shoulders. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. “My friend,” she said, “I have been your pupil for two years. I am determined to fight my own little battle with the world —there must be a place for me somewhere, and I mean to find it. “Are you in a hurry? Will you come in and have some coffee?” He hesitated, and glanced towards her companion. She shook her head, almost breaking a smile.
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