The transverse spars before mentioned were as slippery as ice; and the hollows between them were filled ankle-deep with water. The old man was conducted to Jack's cell by the turnkey, who remained near him during their interview. Annabel Pellissier was not like the others, he said. But in his presence a wall of diffidence and timidity encompassed her. She had looked forward to an explanation. She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. The queer phase of the dream was this, she was at no time a woman; she was symbolical of something, and he followed to learn what this something was. “Oh, there’s no doubt of it! Since the girls of the eighties broke bounds and sailed away on bicycles—my young days go back to the very beginnings of that —it’s been one triumphant relaxation.
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