After quarter of an hour, she followed. It was not as bad a wound as she had at first thought, and the blood was only oozing now. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. “But I am at singing-pitch. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way.
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