One of the coolies held the paper lantern. ” He stood up and waited for her to move. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. ’ ‘Don’t count on it. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. ” “I will tell her,” Anna promised. This was just what he needed.
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