Laying these carefully aside, he restored the drawer to its place. Annabel entered. A pretty name for a pretty girl. Ramage. She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage. It’s gone. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. She was, she guessed, close to the library. She nursed at his neck as he peacefully slumbered through being killed.
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