There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. I want to love him. The only persons in the Lodge were Mrs. ‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. ‘Now be sensible, Melusine, and let me help you. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers.
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