Her husband finally relented. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. But there is something in your voice that makes me distrust you. It had a tiny flaw, most bizarre. Blood, they say, won't come out. Perhaps for the first time he realized that Anna was by no means an ordinary person. Then, though full of confidence, he half doubted his power of accomplishing his designs. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited.
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