Is all that folly done with—for ever?” Annabel shivered ever so slightly. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. Diedermeyer, sweetheart? He just went in. “Your brother has gone?” she asked Sydney, between the courses. A few minutes later Sir John left the room. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually.
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