“No, John, you won’t understand. ‘What do you say of these troops?’ ‘You see, we’re militia. ” Annabel had been lying curled up on the lounge, the personification of graceful animal ease. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. ’ ‘So this is the way you serve me,’ exclaimed Melusine, her quick temper flaring as she jumped up, slammed her hands on the desk and leaned towards him over it.
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