. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Had it come already? Chapter XXVII JOHN FERRINGHAM, GENTLEMAN “Confess, my dear husband,” Annabel said lightly, “that you are bewildered. ” She blushed deeply. Just this? Parbleu, did he think this was enough? She did not wish to marry him—at least, not just because he was an Englishman. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. He resumed his listening. Gently each time Ruth drew down the arms. ‘I see that Leonardo was right.
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