Yet she held her tongue. She turned back into the hall. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. Mobs were gathered together on the slightest possible pretext; and these tumultuous assemblages, while committing the most outrageous excesses, loudly proclaimed their hatred to the house of Hanover, and their determination to cut off the Protestant succession. She thought of the marvellous beauty of skin, and all the delightfulness of living texture.
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