He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. ‘Lord,’ he uttered, glancing about with a disparaging eye. Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. "Egad!" exclaimed Wood, "you've hit the right nail on the head, anyhow. ” She commented, only to herself.
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