Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. .
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