Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. My husband, he is cruel and wicked, and—and entirely undistinguished. ” Annabel yawned. She stood looking down upon him with dilated eyes. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. She had omitted that the flu had been called the Black Death and that it was a dead child that had been inside that womb, so many hundreds of years ago. ’ He held his hands out of the way, surrendering his chest for her assault. But it was only when that damned scoundrel nearly spitted you in the chapel—’ He broke off and, to her intense satisfaction she saw he was not as much in command of himself as he would have her believe.
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