. ‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it. I hope you will always remember——” Annabel held out her hands with a little cry of protest. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. ’ She looked up again and smiled sweetly. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene.
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