“I think that I shall be the most unpopular man in London. ’ ‘Not, I trust, Nicholas Charvill?’ ‘Hardly. That is not reasonable. Wood. . . But if you wouldn't have me positively dislike Jack Sheppard, you'll never mention such a subject again. How on earth does it concern you?” Annabel laughed hardly. Fruit trees had been brought all the way from India so their product could be laden on the wedding table, fruits with exotic shapes and haunting flavors ended the meal, cleansing the palate. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. One glance through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient. A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water.
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