I forget. She could accord her father with one grace: he was not in any manner a hypocrite. Later on—well then the time may come. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. I am sure I never enjoyed so much popularity in my life. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. She fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it.
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