It was Annabel who caught at the paper. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. Bottles and glasses usurped the place of dishes and plates. It was nothing like the big church wedding she wanted, but nothing could shame her greater than to have a child out of wedlock. Besides, it was under false pretences. She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting. ‘Gérard!’ ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned. ‘You should not kiss me at all, and undoubtedly I should kill you.
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