’ ‘You think it would have been better for me to stay as a nun and be killed like the Valades?’ said Melusine, brutally frank. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. And you will. She never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. Capes. Just as the attendants were preparing to lower the corpse into the earth, Jack fell on his knees beside the coffin, uttering the wildest exclamations of grief, reproaching himself with the murder of his mother, and invoking the vengeance of Heaven on his own head. Everything. She just sat and told me that was her arrangement.
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