She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light, uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms, as if imploring protection. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. You have darkened your eyebrows, you have even changed your style of dress. Pure romantic nonsense on her part.
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