Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. It was he who saw them first coming down the room—Annabel in a wonderful white satin gown in front, and Sir John stiff, unbending, disapproving, bringing up the rear. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. Annabel a murderess! It was not possible. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him.
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