She took up the poker and stirred the fire vigorously. " "By no means," rejoined Wood, hastily. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. ” “The truth,” she murmured, with her eyes fixed upon him. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. It will be horribly dull, and she is a very trying person. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it.
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