When he was concentrating, deep shadows formed under his gray eyes. There was something about their greeting and the tone of Annabel’s exclamation which puzzled her. ‘Odd sort of a nun. ‘Jacques? You have done it? He is alive?’ ‘Oh, he’s alive, all right,’ confirmed the sergeant, putting the petrified Pottiswick—stockstill and staring in horror at the dagger—firmly out of his way and taking his place before Melusine. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. Ennison too, always handsome and debonnair, seemed transported out of his calm self.
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