“I’ve plenty of pals,” he said, “who, when they’ve been doing Paris on the Q. Instead of which, more than half an hour has elapsed. The horror of those few minutes was still with her. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Finally, at the exit into Regent’s Park, they ran against Miss Klegg. “I won’t pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident.
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