‘Yes, tell us everything at once,’ instructed Lucilla, pushing him towards the sofa she had vacated, and obliging him to sit beside her. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly. “I tell you it was a lie!” he shouted wildly. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise.
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