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” “Of course you’re converted?” she said. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin. 265 The madness crept around her like smoke under a door. Just as he got on the roof of the prison, St. ” Annabel moistened her dry lips with a handkerchief steeped in eau de Cologne. ‘Quite mad, nuns are. Or at least he did the day before yesterday. I’ve always had a sneaking desire for the writing-trade.
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