Chapter XXIII MONTAGUE HILL SEES LIGHT AT LAST At exactly ten minutes past ten Annabel rang the bell of her sister’s flat. By this time Capes’ hair had bleached nearly white, and his skin had become a skin of red copper shot with gold. A sprinkling of callow youths, and a couple of pronounced young Jews, who were talking loudly together in some unintelligible jargon of the City. Sheppard had been interred. “There is some mystery about you both,” he exclaimed, with sudden earnestness. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. " Darrell's attention was drawn to the latter part of this speech by a slight pressure on his foot. She had a better voice than I, and the rest I suppose is only a trick. "Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. “I don’t know. He talked about his driver's license, how he would soon inherit his older brother's BMW. White calls them. His patient was distinctly of a different order of life.
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