” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. “This has almost killed your father. “Oh, theories! Being in love is a fact. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. They began to wrestle fiercely. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Wood, who looks after her comforts, and visits her constantly. She’ll tell everyone soon, if only to gain herself some attention!” He cried under his breath.
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