Nigel Ennison, Annabel. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. He drew an awed breath. "I shan't sleep a wink while Jack Sheppard's in the house.
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