Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. “I might return the compliment, Courtlaw,” he answered, “by asking why the devil you come lurching on to the pavement like a drunken man. ‘They lived with him, one after the other, for all the world as his wife. I believed that our marriage was genuine.
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