‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess, reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. No doubt— because he did not understand you—he thought you had run away with someone. ’ She waved towards a handy table to one side which was piled high with so many volumes, it looked in imminent danger of crashing to the floor. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. ‘I find this was excessively clever of Gérard. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring. He looked like an animated skeleton that someone had hung a smelly 105 brown beard upon. Annabel a murderess! It was not possible. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. All that he had sown that afternoon with such infinite care was as nothing compared to this seed, cast without forethought.
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