He opened the door for her with a faint disagreeable smile. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. He became a little less en garde. He paused at the bamboo curtain of her room, which was in semi-darkness. This is a noted place for highwaymen. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling.
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