It was her past now, not Annabel’s. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock—ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. These thoughts, however, came to a broken end. Now I’d like the rest of your story. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. She sensed that he was looking for her.
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