He’s a footman who works for the nuns and has taken up the cudgels on her behalf. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. “Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed. And, now, to find a messenger. She had always had a wonderful ear for phrasing, even back in the days of the viol. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. They either ran to see or ran for shelter. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands.
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