1715. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. “I don’t think you can have heard me, Vee,” he said, with intensely controlled fury. ’ ‘I know,’ he said, smiling. “You don’t propose, do you,” she said quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?” “You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. He tells me that you will not even see him.
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