He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. It was not for a week or a month. The man had favoured him with a brief nod, but the girl had gone so far as to offer a tiny smile, and a look under her lashes with which not even Gerald, for all his scant interest in female society, could fail to be familiar. It shall be the bludgeon. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling.
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