He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. Brendon,” she said, “if I could ask for advice, or borrow money from any one, I would from you—there! But I cannot. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. She remembered him as a dull figure, a big man with a belly that was already showing fat under his fine scarlet clothes. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. She fell into another slumber, one which was more like a blackout. In the evening, a band of village musicians, accompanied by most of the young inhabitants of Willesden, strolled out to Dollis Hill, where they formed a rustic concert under the great elm before the door. Her eyes flashed and she withdrew the dagger, pulling away from him. "What is this?" she wanted to know.
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