Thunder rumbled behind the manicured hills. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. '" "Slave?" echoed Jack. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. Your face has flitted out of my watch-fire, and then I have been a haunted man. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. I'm in a funk," Spurlock confessed. "Sir Cecil is no more. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face.
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