His hands reached under her skirt. “Politics!” Ennison answered grimly. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. Jeez! It was about time. I was resolved to see you. I hear the sound of his horse's feet in the yard. D. Vorsack looked pale and pink. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. And this was an adventure of which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South Seas.
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