She was my first love. . The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. Then she went below. Basically, I was raised in daycare. The unknown, previously so attractive, now presented another face—blank. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. “How could I, when your sister sings now at the ‘Unusual’ every night and the name ‘Alcide’ flaunts from every placard in London?” “The likeness between us,” she said, “before I began to disfigure myself with rouge and ill-dressed hair, was remarkable.
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