On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. She frowned and gripped her hands about her knees very tightly. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. Spurlock had seen Rollo heading for the jungle, and for some reason he could not explain the incident had bothered him. . Who could say that the two weren't in collusion? When a chap like Spurlock jumped the traces, cherchez la femme, every time. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it.
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