” Chapter XXXII SIX MONTHS AFTER Up the moss-grown path, where the rose bushes run wild, almost met, came Anna in a spotless white gown, with the flush of her early morning walk in her cheeks, and something of the brightness of it in her eyes. John knew better. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. But at last this ordeal was over, and Ramage opened the door. "Of course," rejoined the bystander, who had just spoken, and who was of a cynical turn,—"the greater the rascal, the better they like him.
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