“Stop! Don’t put your face there. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. 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. Just because I attempt to seek the worst of men to kill, it doesn’t make it right. Sheppard. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure.
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