He shivered and looked behind as he stepped into his hansom. “Ugh!” she said. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. ” Annabel rose slowly to her feet, walked to the door as though to see that it was shut, and came back with slow lagging footsteps. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. She had worn a long skirt that morning, and a roomier sweater that was slightly easier to handle than Shari’s low cut numbers. ‘Come, mademoiselle, it is of no use to conceal anything from me, you know. By 12:30 a.
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