She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. She played “Happy Birthday” for John, after which they plied her with a dozen requests. “You don’t propose, do you,” she said quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?” “You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. "I'll make a sketch, too," he said. She cursed herself for a fool. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. ‘Dead then, is he?’ ‘If I could say that he is dead, it would give me very much satisfaction.
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