To my loving parents and brothers, and my Aunts, Gail and Barb. She softened her tone and scrambled for the right words. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. “This isn’t furtive,” said Ann Veronica. “I went to Anna’s rooms because I felt that I must see her. I'll be outside the hotel at nine-thirty. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. Gerald took Madame’s hand and kissed the fingers with a little more warmth than punctilio demanded.
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