His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird. His build was medium, he would never 5 tower over his peers, yet his shoulders were broadening, betrayed by an undeveloped set of pectoral muscles underneath his button-down shirt that she could tell frustrated him. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. He was waiting in the outer hall as she tiptoed in. “Great dears!” said Capes, as the vehicle passed out of sight. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self.
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