She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. Their conversation became stilted. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. I'll forgive him if he does. I didn’t ought to have sent for him. She saw his face change, how he regretted. ‘Are you going to tell me?’ ‘But looking for proof,’ Melusine uttered impatiently.
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