Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. I love my husband. It’s obvious you have eyes for someone else. She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. “Forgive my coming in,” she said to Ennison. He smothered a laugh.
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