‘Even the nuns they say I am like a devil. Sheila, a normally sound sleeper, woke one night to find both her husband and her foster daughter had snuck from their beds, and this infuriated her. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. Besides, it was under false pretences. I hope you will always remember——” Annabel held out her hands with a little cry of protest. And then! a garment that was conceivably a secondary skirt.
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