She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. Some friends who saw us dining together persist in alluding to her as Miss Annabel Pellissier. Her eyes travelled about the room as if in appeal to the very chairs. She danced with two others. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. All the best novels have been written by women, and yet see how men sneer at the lady novelist still! There’s only one way to get on for a woman, and that is to please men. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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