Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. ‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely. ‘I do not know of whom you speak. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. I know that you were disappointed because I did not turn out to be the millionaire. "I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door.
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