” “Then I was never married to him at all?” Annabel said. In the beginning it was a dictionary. “Miss Pellissier,” he said, “these gentlemen are your friends, and therefore they are my friends. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. But in the appendix of the dictionary she had discovered magic names—Hugo, Dumas, Thackeray, Hawthorne, Lytton. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart.
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