What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. Women are not in the world in the same sense that men are—fighting individuals in a scramble. The thing rankled in her mind night and day. “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house. Sir John and Annabel seated themselves at one of them, and the proprietor himself, a small dark-visaged man, radiant with smiles, came hurrying up, followed by a waiter. She fled. So was I, in fact. It was exactly as Sebastian had foreseen. You met Sir Rowland at the house of a Romisch priest, Father Spencer. Courtlaw,” she remarked. He'll mend, I hope.
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