“It is very good of you to come and see me, my dear sister,” Annabel remarked, throwing herself into a low chair, and clasping her hands over her head. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. There was a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. She had hardly noticed the loss of her dagger, so strong had been the waves of relief that attacked her on hearing that Jack had returned from death’s door. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. .
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