The ragged edge. 167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. 1. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. She said that she couldn’t stand Mike. He was so seldom wrong. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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