She was reasonably certain why. She leaped to a world of shabby knowledge, of furtive base realizations. “This isn’t a world for an innocent girl to walk about in. Born on a South Sea island, she said. “Showtime!” Martin cried. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters. He had just arrived from Manchester, whence he had been summoned by that treacherous thief-taker. He disappeared into its thick doors like a magician’s rabbit. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. “You were married to him!” “It could not be legal,” Annabel moaned. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered.
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