Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. En tout cas, why had he not returned? She pondered the question as, later, she paced about her favourite retreat. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. “What else can happen?” asked Miss Miniver, with a little weak gesture at the glow. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. A woman isn’t much freer—in reality. A narrow passage at the north of the Stone Hall led to the Bluebeard's room of this enchanted castle, a place shunned even by the reckless crew who were compelled to pass it.
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