Confound this slavery of sex! I am a man! I will get this under if I am killed in doing it!” She scowled into the cold blacknesses about her. Annabel thought, and thought again. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. “You will not give Sir John any cause for jealousy? You will have no secrets from him except—concerning those things which are past?” “Anna, I swear it!” her sister sobbed. CHAPTER XXIX. The hansom drove off.
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