Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. Miss Annabel is her sister. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. “But your sister,” he said. Of course, one doesn’t like to talk about things until there are things to talk about. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. He remained talking with her however. She had not seen Ramage for ten or eleven days, and she was quite ready for a gossip with him.
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