For a long time even the strong pipe tobacco (with which McClintock supplied him) possessed a coconut flavour. He grew more ardent, sliding her breasts out of the strapless bodice of her gown. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she panted, shifting wildly in his hold, so that he had all to do to keep her thus imprisoned. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband.
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