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. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. There was a gulf of eight years between her and the youngest of her brace of sisters—an impassable gulf inhabited chaotically by two noisy brothers. . ’ ‘But you are bleeding like a pig,’ came the frantic response. Ennison started and looked anxiously at Anna.
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