“Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. He had gained admission somehow, and he too was waiting for Anna. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. Looking for something, or someone, probably. . She was unusually soft and gentle in her manner to him. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside.
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