She said as much to him. Kneebone, then, sat down to await the arrival of his expected guest. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. “One can’t tell. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. She was curious to know why he had boarded a dingy train instead of hailing a cab or his own private chauffeur like the others in expensive suits were doing.
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