There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. She could stow away, go to a place where there were no people to eat and end her life. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. Withdrawing another bolt, and unhooking a chain suspended from the top of the casement, Jonathan pushed the iron framework outwards. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. You have been useful to me, or I would not have spared you thus long. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity.
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