The Leads 405 XXI. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her grief. ’ She flounced back to stare out of the window again. It wasn’t clear to me that I had to explain. Not like my father. I have—run away. Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. This vile hovering to catch a man’s eye!.
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