Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for her sister’s return. She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. But how close? She glanced about at the shrouded furnishings for possible cover. And I want you for myself—for my wife. " "A capital caricature that," remarked Thornhill, laughing. She is not in the least like the descriptions of her. Members of the crowd looked over their shoulders and stared at her through the smoky haze. "And so I want the boy out of the way," he concluded. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved.
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