Now then. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. Speaking of mean, you watch out for Kate Bitchster. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. She wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience. He returned her to her door at a decent hour, well before 10:00. “Yes?” he said. By that time it seemed to them they had lived together twenty years.
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