A maidservant held the front door open. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Something about the girl had suggested an idea. . Too late she realised that Emile was not trying to escape. Then, her body still tense with the atoms of anger, she sat down upon the edge of the bed and rocked from side to side. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my transgressions may be forgiven. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness.
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