Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. She lived, he noted, very carelessly. How could he have betrayed her so cruelly? How could he lie and claim her as dead? Sebastian studied her carefully as she refused to cry and became like a pillar of stone. She recalled him. But eventually Spurlock laughed. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice’s most skilful attempts to draw him out. Nuns, I mean. She has already forgotten it.
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