Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence. Lord, I am sixty. Surely it was a dream. ‘You’re as mad as she is, Gerald. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic.
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