But he wrote on. They talked lightly and smoked cigarettes till Anna, with a little laugh, threw open the window and let in the cool night air. Shame and electricity coursed through her veins, flowing directly from him in a flash flood. To—to find myself. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts.
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