Edward Bribble stood between them with an open book. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. “I don’t see quite what your game is, Vee, but I suppose you’ve got a game on somewhere. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. “You and Anna,” she said, “seem to have stumbled upon a mare’s nest. Both girls looked pale and listless. Terror had laid a paralyzing hand upon her, fear kept her almost unconscious of the curious glances which she was continually attracting. Manning,” she began.
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