It was Annabel who spoke. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. She was frightfully hungry. "Gone," replied the wounded man. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind. I can assure you, I wouldn’t be single again for worlds. “Indeed, no,” he answered. The tension was palpable. One particularly humiliating thing came out— humiliating for me. And pouring the contents of a small powderflask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture.
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