“A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. En tout cas, I will not permit that you endanger yourself again for me. “What else was I to do?” For some seconds she stood watching him and both were thinking very quickly.
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