Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. And a time will come, Veronica, mark my words, a time will come when you will bless me for my firmness to-night. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs.
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