I am impelled by one of the damnable whims which sway me at times to my
own undoing, to trust to some chance discovery that which under oath I
may never deliberately reveal with my lips. It is the history of
certain events which have heavily shadowed my life and brought me up
with a tight rein from a life of reckless whim and adventure to one of
terrible suffering. I write this with a wild hope that may never be
gratified.
The first foreshadowing of this singular cloud came one night in the
Adirondack hunting lodge of Norman Westfall, a young Southerner whose
inheritance of a childless uncle's millions had made him a conspicuous
figure months before. He was living there with his sister and both, as
usual, were at odds with the grim old father down South who resented
the wild, unconventional strain that had come into his family through
the blood of his wife.
They were a wild, handsome, reckless pair--Ann and Norman
Westfall--inseparable companions in wild adventure for which another
woman would have neither the endurance nor the inclination.
Ann was a strong, beautiful, impetuous woman with rich coloring;
deliciously feminine in her quieter moments, incredibly daring in
others; keen-brained, cultured, and utterly unconventional; generous,
sympathetic and a splendid musician.
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