“A man who does not touch his wife, who ignores his wife, what kind of man is he? I am not sick any more. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. It is safe. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. It was a reputation by no means deserved. “We’ve made out but we haven’t had sex. She laughed as the deluge seemed to grow worse with every step. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. Nigel Ennison, Annabel.
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