Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. There was, it might be said, a double illumination. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son. Assessing him as harmless, she had remained friendly, albeit aloof. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. Some one may observe us. Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them. ‘Indeed?’ Gerald grinned.
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