Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. Melusine’s eyes shifted. Oh, I think I understand, Annabel. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. Capes had the gift of easy, unaffected writing, coupled with very clear and logical thinking, and to follow his written thought gave her the sensation of cutting things with a perfectly new, perfectly sharp knife. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER.
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