Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. Jerking forward, she jabbed backwards. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. I'll tell you what. Neither did his interest,—which was by no means inconsiderable,—nor his general popularity, procure him the preferment he desired.
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