“It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. ‘You said?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss. As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. The music throbbed into the warnings that preceded the king’s irruption. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. .
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