Something insisted that those two were mysteriously linked—that the woman knew the man was there. ” “Not long ago,” she said, “you left me in anger, partly because of this exchange of identities between Annabel and myself. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. Jack was lying so still, for a moment she panicked. No, never mind about thanking me. He is in Newgate.
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