The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. Maybe it’s his loss. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Lucy knocked again. “But your sister?” he asked. As it is, I'm not sorry for the blunder. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights. “Call me Annabel. “I am glad,” she told herself, “I came. “It was,” she admitted. He had meant to come at his business in a roundabout way, but for that little slip. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. Mr Jarvis’s sister, that was.
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