Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. “You do not quite understand,” she said gently. Gerald exchanged a puzzled glance with his friend. The starling, on which the carpenter stood, was the fourth from the Surrey shore. There was a lot of that, John, a great deal of hunger. Sheppard. There is the election——” He laughed derisively. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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