The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. Returning to Mrs Sindlesham’s chair, he held up the miniature so the face depicted there was turned towards the old lady. “Never mind me. “But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. Believe me, Anna.
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