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’ ‘In a way she had been,’ said Prudence. “What’s wrong with having witchcraft books? Is she afraid that the Princeton Hill villagers will burn you at stake?” Lucy asked sarcastically. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. It is no good waiving the thing; it is true. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. 167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. He was completely, devastatingly handsome.

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