225 “Sebastianus. Thanksgiving Day morning, Shari woke Lucy a half an hour before the sounding of the alarm. She felt her canines grow, the hunger consuming her. But you are Annabel. Why do women take to lies and deceit and trickery as naturally as a duck to water?” “You are not alluding, I hope, to Miss Pellissier?” Ennison said stiffly. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. “Well,” he said at last slowly, “I’ll pay it. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Pitt desired to know if he wanted anything further, and being answered in the negative, he excused himself on the plea that his attendance was required in the court at the Old Bailey, which was then sitting, and withdrew. “And, after all, I am just one common person!” She watched the throb of the arteries in the stem of her neck, and put her hand at last gently and almost timidly to where her heart beat beneath her breast. Do you understand?” “I do not,” he answered. You don’t happen to know of any one, I suppose, who wants a nursery governess, or a clerk—without shorthand—or a tryer-on, or a copyist, or——” “For Heaven’s sake stop, Miss Pellissier,” he interrupted.
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