His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. ‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. It is only the women matter. I’ve been wondering where she got her dogged will, and that hot-headed adventurous spirit, for it wasn’t from either Mary or Nicholas, that’s sure. But it annoyed Ann Veronica.
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