A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. Half an hour passed, but Jack did not make his appearance. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. “About two years ago. Ramage?” he asked. ‘She’s little more than a schoolgirl, just out. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. They were very nice about it, in memory of your father.
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