“HASSELL’S CAMP, “NEAR COLORADO. Lose not a moment, Hobson. ” The redness in his face betrayed him. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. They shall hear of me no more. What better way to be rid of him? ‘Jacques,’ she uttered urgently. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. That night in his den he smoked many pipes. The burden of decision had been transferred. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest.
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