‘And now, monsieur le major—’ ‘I will see you to the door,’ Gerald said, looking with interest at the building that his observant groom had told him housed a small collection of nuns. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. Well, while we were smoking our pipes, and quaffing our punch, Alsatia turns to me and says, 'Mint,' says he, 'you're well off here. Melusine choked on a laugh, and Gerald at once seized the initiative, speaking in a tone deliberately soothing. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. It is quite light yet, and I want to have one more look at that angry red sun.
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