The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him. Here she walked more slowly, looking constantly at the notices in the shop windows. Annabel had spoken calmly enough and steadily, but his brain refused at first to accept the full meaning of her words. All this was the work of a minute. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. “Where is she?” He would yell even louder until she was sure that people in faraway fishing boats could probably hear him.
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