"Halloa, widow!" shouted a rough voice from below, "where the devil are you?" Mrs. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. ToC London, at the period of this history, boasted only a single bridge. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. ‘If you had met her, you’d understand. For the first time in her life she had heard music; the door to enchanted sounds had been flung wide. Which are you—Valade or Charvill? Or, no, let me guess.
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