Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. That she was provoked by his interference was obvious. Shoving between them, she confronted the captain herself. She was, she guessed, close to the library. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. ’ ‘But it’s my affair, Melusine. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way.
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