She had never thought of him at all in that way before. The house was eerily silent, which alerted her to the idea that someone might be listening. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. ” “You mean—you think——” “Hush! I think that he was concealed in my room, and Annabel and he met there.
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