” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. A quick flush stained her cheeks. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. “I have never yet met a man whose intellect I could respect. It was red and chapped. The curtains which she had left drawn were open, and the electric lights were turned on. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind.
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