Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Entering the workshop, he found the blacksmith occupied in heating the tire of a cart wheel. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. He lowered her neck before her, and she noticed a bizarre urge to bite him rising from her mind like an itch. ’ ‘But where? Where has he gone? Always he goes off, and he says no word to anyone. No lights were flashing, and a single squad car was not a cause for alert, as sometimes the Becks allowed squads to use their drive to watch for speeders and other reckless drivers. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica.
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