There was something about their greeting and the tone of Annabel’s exclamation which puzzled her. Once or twice she commented upon it, but she knew that it was resultant of his fear of her impending departure. They had refused. Time was moving so fast, she could no longer count the days since Gosse had come to her with his preposterous suggestion at the Coq d’Or, where they were staying and where he had robbed her and left her and Martha to their fate. Once they were on the move, Kimble seemed to find strength from somewhere. With one or two exceptions, there were no pews; and, as the intercourse with London was then but slight, the seats were occupied almost exclusively by the villagers. What had actually beaten him was not to have known if someone had picked up his trail. He was continually dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had elected to play.
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