She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. She refused to sleep in the same room with him one night, kicking him in the shins. She had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. "What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked. “How?” 106 “The other person makes the mistake of going to sleep. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. If I’d known, there would have been a different story. ‘Difficult, I grant you.
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