There was a fourth story; but he never told either Ruth or McClintock about this. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. You denied it, remembering that I had called myself Anna. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. Before we start, I'll accommodate you with a pair of ruffles.
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