Montague Hill?” Annabel put her hand suddenly to her throat and steadied herself with the back of a chair. ‘And I wouldn’t be no sort of a man if I’d heard what I heard, and gone off and left you. ’ ‘The word of whom?’ came scoffingly from the pretty lips. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. ‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume.
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