That night, she hunted the alleyways of the old town. But when they were on their way out he whispered in Anna’s ear. ’ ‘Don’t be too sure,’ said Miss Froxfield darkly, with a mischievous glance at her betrothed. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. Once inside, he looked around, worried that his parents would suddenly cancel their trip and return home. Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. It isn't as if he were stricken with typhoid or pneumonia or something like that.
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