A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. Had it come already? Chapter XXVII JOHN FERRINGHAM, GENTLEMAN “Confess, my dear husband,” Annabel said lightly, “that you are bewildered. His strength has been described as prodigious; but now, heightened by his desire for vengeance, it was irresistible. Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard. I’m not Gerald, remember. He had had five children at irregular intervals, of whom Ann Veronica was the youngest, so that as a parent he came to her perhaps a little practised and jaded and inattentive; and he called her his “little Vee,” and patted her unexpectedly and disconcertingly, and treated her promiscuously as of any age between eleven and eight-and-twenty. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. You are my prisoner, murderer.
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