‘I must. “I’m sorry Mister McCloskey! I was out seeing my boyfriend!” He stared at her concernedly. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. It suited him to dampen the spirits of any who sought to impose upon him, as these relics of the loathed family of Valade seemed like to do. .
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