” Annabel moistened her dry lips with a handkerchief steeped in eau de Cologne. Spurling, as if struck by a sudden idea. Swiftly she ran her hands over the carvings, trying to find the lever to the secret panel again. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. ‘I am not a fool. In addition to my public salary I have a certain private property and further expectations through my aunt, so that I can offer you a life of wide and generous refinement, travel, books, discussion, and easy relations with a circle of clever and brilliant and thoughtful people with whom my literary work has brought me into contact, and of which, seeing me only as you have done alone in Morningside Park, you can have no idea. But I have remembered the horse and have asked this sergeant that a soldier fetch him. ” She replied with a rehearsed answer, “I was told that my real mother died the day I was born.
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