“Will he die?” she asked. “Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed. Then Gosse spoke again, answering the question in her mind. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. Gifts came from Florence: rubies and emeralds, a beautiful statue of Santa Maria for their garden grotto, a gorgeous silk tapestry of a hunting scene that alone made the price of her dowry look paltry. There was question in Gerald’s gaze as it met hers, and apology in his voice. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. All this while he was arranging the medicines on the stand and jotting down his instructions on a chart sheet.
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