Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian. I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. She shattered the edifice he was building up of himself as a devoted lover, waiting only his chance to win her from a hopeless and consuming passion. She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed, knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover. Here I am.
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