“I’m sorry, ma’am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this,” he pointed to Anna, “is my wife. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. Presently he caught her puzzled glance, and recollected himself, turning on the charm again. He touched it again, and this time it was not withdrawn. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. Why may I not be your friend? Somehow or other I feel that you have been driven into a false position.
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