The fire still burned brightly. He had reacted by pushing her away, disgust and frustration on his face. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. “All’s well that ends well,” he said; “and the less one says about things the better. He grabbed her wrist and prised the weapon from her fingers, ignoring her other hand that clawed at his to try to retain the trophy. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone. It keeps dangling in front of my eyes. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel.
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