If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. "You've given him a broken head, I perceive. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. She could stow away, go to a place where there were no people to eat and end her life. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. “How well and jolly you must be feeling. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the stairs. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said.
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