Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. “He is addressing a meeting of his constituents somewhere,” Annabel answered. ‘Might have forgiven him,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘if he hadn’t taken the babe. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. They went to the gate and stopped there, gabbed with their men, and didn’t even dismount.
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