The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. The tall, blond boys, right?” “That’s them. “I will not ask you to explain further. Annabel Pellissier was not like the others, he said. Three times she escaped.
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