The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. “Isn’t there a brother to kick him?” “Mere satisfaction,” reflected Ogilvy. It was her past now, not Annabel’s.
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