He flipped the television off. He filled her glass with champagne. "You're not hurt I hope, Sir Rowland?" inquired this individual. " "There's no hurry. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one.
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