There was. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. ‘I’ll make it, miss. She was supposed to be reading at home, and after breakfast she strolled into the vegetable garden, and having taken up a position upon the staging of a disused greenhouse that had the double advantage of being hidden from the windows of the house and secure from the sudden appearance of any one, she resumed the reading of Mr. ” The figure of her aunt, a little distant, a little propitiatory, behind the coffee things, filled her with a sense of almost catastrophic adventure. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast.
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