Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. At the thought of the major, her tears redoubled and she was obliged to rip off a piece from the remnants of her already maltreated underpetticoats with which to blow her nose and soak the damp from her cheeks. ’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned. ‘Very inventive. Besides—there is Sir John. "No"—as if her thoughts were elsewhere. He stood on the top step for a moment, lost in deep thought. . . "You've got to kill me to get out of here alive.
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