“Bother it all!” she swore. " "Fear nothing. Jackson, to the swig. And don’t talk until we’re well out of earshot. Sir John heard gossip about us—about Anna the recluse, a paragon of virtue, and Annabel alias ‘Alcide’ a dancer at the cafés chantants, and concerning whom there were many stories which were false, and a few—which were true. They seed beyond all reason. And the less “anything” happened the better. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. "I hope not. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow.
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