She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. Or did he? Perhaps he had found another. ‘Not care? For this he must be an Englishman tout à fait sympathique, and— and I know only. Those who lived outside the law might squabble among themselves, even unto death, Leonardo told her. She began rubbing it with her pocket-handkerchief. No doubt there’s some little mistake. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. She understood. “You do not know what you say.
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