“He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. “I had those beautiful roses from you on my first night, and a tiny little note but no address. And you will. He next searched for his stockings and shoes, and when found, put them on. Not for me. Ann Veronica forgot him as soon as she was through the gate, and her face resumed its expression of stern preoccupation. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. We smirk, and we’re a bit—furtive. I thought then perhaps you didn’t care, that you were like so many of them.
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