Annabel Pellissier was not like the others, he said. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. Lucy heard a stir, but if Dawn Plote were to arise and come into the room, it could only mean two murders tonight. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered.
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