“It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Her spirit awoke in dismay to an affection in ruins, to the immense undignified disaster that had come to them. Nothing seemed to be amiss.
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