Capes saw her, felt for her, cared for her greatly, even if he did not love her. “Annabel;” he moaned. It seemed to her that her father was in some inexplicable way meaner-looking than she had supposed, and yet also, as unaccountably, appealing. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society. He pushed her small hand into his jeans. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. “Come sit with me, beautiful. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly.
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