I can’t even make myself care. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple. She took her hat from the peg in the corner and began to put it on. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. Charvill’s command of French was enough to tell him that, for its entire content was devoted to commending Nicholas Charvill’s fourteen year old daughter into the care of the Abbess. “The adventures I do not doubt, Annabel,” she said. She would come and sit cross-legged just beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. They got on wonderfully well together.
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