Ann Veronica looked up at him and found him regarding her with eyes that were almost woebegone, and into which, indeed, he was trying to throw much more expression than they could carry. Gianfrancesco had told her about it, how he had played in it as a child with his brothers. “Your name, I believe, is——” “Pellissier,” Anna answered. Nobody toys with me. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. ” She turned her face to the fire, gripped her hands upon her elbows, and drew her thin shoulders together in a shrug. The lines about his mouth gradually softened. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls.
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