The young lady with frizzled hair, whom Brendon had pointed out to her as Miss Ellicot, leaned forward from her hostess’s side. Captain Roding strode into the parlour. The idea of leaving for Mexico had become unbearable, as he was so easy to like and perhaps even easier to love. 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. It was Annabel’s. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question.
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