“It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. Covered with houses, from one end to the other, this reverend and picturesque structure presented the appearance of a street across the Thames. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. Third period was Art, where they sat side by side at a table and carved linoleum for block prints together. “I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare.
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