"I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. ” She wanted to feast upon him badly, his passion, his youthfulness. Sometimes a whole morning would pass without Spurlock uttering a word beyond the request for a drink of water. I’m sorry. ” She glared at Sebastian over the drawing table where she was sketching in chalk, then over at the fifteen year old boy who was asleep in a disheveled pile of rushes in the corner. “Want to see the upstairs?” “Sure.
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