She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. She held out her hand frankly. "Whatever your intelligence may be I will strive to bear it. “The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name.
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