Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. Sorrow lay in the back of his mind as he withdrew, but he put it aside. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a very civil salutation. ‘But what will happen to Lucia? Are we to kill her?’ ‘Of course not.
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