Annabel believed it, came to England and married Sir John. I can't run in these heavy fetters. She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared. She had fallen asleep. She shut the door behind her. Mr. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing.
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