Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. “Oh goody. He was in great pain and it meant that he would be in casts for twelve weeks. Jonathan nodded assent. Now it occurred to him that to show her the sealed letter would be a better way. The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose.
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