“Annabel;” he moaned. You’ll need that. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. She forced herself not to think of John. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray. She walked through the office to the door, aimlessly. It was evident the lady’s servant knew his mistress, for he had come equipped with a tray upon which reposed a decanter and two glasses. ‘Aye, that she was.
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