” Annabel shrugged her shoulders. With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. The stranger concluded he could not be far from his destination, and a turn in the road showed him the house. The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands. Indeed, it was his boast that he could find his way through any part of London blindfolded; and by this time, it would seem, he had nearly arrived at his destination; for, grasping his companion's arm, he led him along a narrow entry which did not appear to have an outlet, and came to a halt. Annabel had spoken calmly enough and steadily, but his brain refused at first to accept the full meaning of her words. "I hope you don't imagine anything has gone wrong, Sir.
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