Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. “More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. Neither would she allow herself to feel guilty nor would she allow him to find a way into the house. They pressed more insistently, forcing her lips open. But Melusine had overcome the weakness, calling the loss but a temporary setback.
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