"Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. He handed her a cheque for thirty-one pounds, ten shillings, and read the agreement through to her. Kneebone. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. She had thought of the lawyer who conducted the Remenham business, but she knew not where to find him. In seconds, they faced each other before the altar.
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