The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. His hands came up, his face broke apart. ‘I escape from a fate entirely misérable, you understand. Ennison reeled, and almost fell. He looked at it eagerly, but made no movement to take it. Besides, you've secrets which must not be disclosed. She thought study would be better. The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. It would have been better had he succeeded in murdering her, she thought. Then he entered her passionately, riding her with exquisite precision.
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