At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. “I’m sorry Lucy! I’m sorry to Mike too! You were right, we’re a mismatch! I just don’t want to be lonely!” Lucy hugged Michelle. He had nothing to guide him; for though the torches were blazing ruddily below, their gleam fell only on the side of the building. Miching Mallecho. The agonized mother could scarcely repress a scream at the spectacle that met her gaze. Girls screamed in chorus. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. Brown strode to center stage and Lucy quieted the instruments with a gesture. ’ ‘How shocking,’ Gerald returned, grinning.
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