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It is for that reason that this novel begins with her there, and neither earlier nor later, for it is the history of this crisis and its consequences that this novel has to tell. The uncanny directness of those gray eyes, the absence of diffidence, the beauty of the face in profile (full, it seemed a little too broad to make for perfect beauty), the mellow voice that came full and free, without hesitance, all combined to mark her as the most unusual young woman he had ever met. The roofs and gables of many of the houses had been torn off. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. He hated to destroy it; but that was the obligation imposed; and he was an honourable man. Produce them!" "Never!" replied Kneebone. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. "Why shouldn't a Chinaman be honest? Ah, yes; I know. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life.
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