It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Practically all. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. Charvill’s command of French was enough to tell him that, for its entire content was devoted to commending Nicholas Charvill’s fourteen year old daughter into the care of the Abbess. She was a large, resilient girl, with a foolish smile, a still more foolish expression of earnestness, and a throaty contralto voice. ‘There is little I can do at present. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. ‘Give me my pistol!’ Gerald shook his head, slipping the pistol into his pocket. But, as he made no answer, he was removed. Annabel saw it, and suddenly changed her tone.
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