Gosse took a step or two towards the centre of the room. He never felt any need to explain himself. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life. “Where?” “To that ball. It was Annabel’s. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. "To me?" gasped Winifred. ‘But this is altogether a chance of the luckiest.
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