” “I wonder,” he said, a trifle irrelevantly, “what the future has in store for you. Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for her sister’s return. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. What is there?” “Tristan. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. She bolted upright as she heard footsteps rumble towards the door, cursing UPS for being so damn persistent in such foul weather. She fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it.
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