‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. That was odd: when young people were joyous, they had to express it physically. Until she had left her island, what she heard and what she saw were truths. But nobody drinks on my island unless I offer it, which is seldom. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. ‘But if you must fight so furiously, I don’t see how I can promise not to do it again. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him.
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