Free Anne Belinda by Patricia Wentworth Page A

that it was here and the vague unformulated dread had taken form in the spoken word, everything in his nature rose up against it in a violence of denial that was purely instinctive. He heard the wind stir the tulip leaves; he heard Jenny take a sobbing breath; he heard Pamela Austin’s clear, high, boyish voice in a snatch of syncopated tune. He waited until he could speak quietly:
    â€œDo you mean that Anne is mad?”
    Jenny cried out at that.
    â€œI’m sorry—but I’ve got to know—is that what you mean?”
    â€œOh!” said Jenny. It was a very piteous little cry. She put both hands over her face as if the darkness were not shield enough. “Oh, John, it breaks my heart! My darling Anne!” she said, and broke into convulsive sobbing.

CHAPTER X
    Anne Waveney came out into the spring sunshine and looked about her. She was carrying a small suitcase. A woman who was passing stared. Anne turned to the right and walked away, with her head held high and her heart beating rather quickly. After a minute or two she forgot all about the woman. She looked at a blue sky full of light, at the puddle in the road which showed that it had rained last night, at a child with a riot of copper-coloured hair, at a slinking sandy cat; and for the moment all these things were equally beautiful and equally dear. A real cat, prowling in a real London street; real people, going on errands, meeting each other, talking to each other; a real baby in a perambulator. As she passed the baby, Anne made dancing eyes at it, and the baby said “Goo,” and waggled a much sucked rattle.
    Anne turned the corner and hailed a passing taxi. She had planned all this many times over, had thought of it day and night until sometimes she wondered whether she had not drawn all the thrill from it in anticipation. But no anticipation had given her quite this sense of having wings; she was so full of happiness that it seemed to lift her and carry her without her own volition.
    She sat in the taxi and looked eagerly out of the window. How awfully short everybody’s skirts were! She was wearing a pretty grey tweed coat and skirt and a close black felt hat turned up in front. The coat and skirt and the hat had been quite new a year ago. They were quite new now; but they were out of date. People were wearing brims again—little brims, and higher crowns—awfully becoming. And her skirt was inches too long, though she and Jenny had felt rather daring when they wore these twin coats and skirts last year. She wondered what Jenny had done with hers. “I can ask her—I can ask her to-day—I can see Jenny to-day—I can ask her anything I like!”
    She drew a long trembling breath of happiness. The thought of seeing Jenny so soon brought the colour to her cheeks and a dancing sparkle to her dark blue eyes. Her thoughts danced too. Then she set herself to plan. Dancing thoughts were all very well, but she had got to be practical; there was a lot to be done before she went down to see Jenny.
    She had given the address of the hotel at which she and Mrs. Jones had stayed more than a year ago. But now, as they turned into the familiar street, a sort of cold horror swept over her. She had not known that she would feel like that. It was unreasonable, it was foolish—but there it was.
    Suddenly there came into her mind the name of another hotel. On the impulse she leaned out of the window and gave the address to the driver. As she drew back again, the cold horror receded, leaving her trembling with relief.
    The place would probably be just what she wanted—frightfully respectable and not too expensive, since Aurora Fairlie always stayed there when she was in town. She wondered, with a little laugh, where Aurora was and what she was doing.
    A few minutes later she was explaining to a blasé booking clerk that she wanted a room just for the day. A key was put into her hand, and a register pushed forward for