On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. ‘I’m not going to arrest you, young Jack—yet. “I am sorry that I have murdered you. What of it?” There was a shout of laughter. It was a face that matched her body, so pure and beautiful that any man would have killed for her. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. Gerald guessed she was biting her tongue on an explosive retort as she eyed him. I can bear anything but suspense.
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