Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. “It is true,” he said, “that I was dining last night at a restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes, and it is true that my companion was a young lady whose name is Pellissier. The bridge was open. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. He has a grand time. ” Annabel moistened her dry lips with a handkerchief steeped in eau de Cologne.
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