‘Kill him? Oh. ” Annabel laughed softly. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. ” He said. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage.
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