‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’ ‘She said she wouldn’t murder you. But the indecision, which had been fatal to his race, was fatal to him. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. 275 “Yes!” She answered, feeling joy and fear well in her chest. “Call me Annabel. Rather! Who could help it?” He towered up over her and smiled down at her in his fatherly way. Certain of my prey, I can afford to wait for it. It is for that reason that this novel begins with her there, and neither earlier nor later, for it is the history of this crisis and its consequences that this novel has to tell.
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