She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. ‘And why not?’ ‘Because,’ Gerald said matter of factly, ‘convent-bred jeune demoiselles do not commonly know how to handle either pistols or daggers. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. Perhaps, after all, the others were right. My heart misgives me. She had maintained a B in each subject except History, which she occasionally felt compelled to strive for A’s in, considering she had lived through most of it. “Yes, I believe he is. You Ann Veronica?” “Rather! I say—did you marry Gwen?” “Yes.
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