She held out her hand frankly. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. “Is that you, Nigel?” she asked. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. Surely he was imagining this picture. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. "His name, I say!—his name!" thundered the knight.
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