Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly. ” “Anna!” “It is true, dear. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. He would come swiftly to her aid, she knew it. Yet she held her tongue. Wood. .
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