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Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. Abruptly, Gerald turned. Annabel thought, and thought again.
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