” She was silent. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. She used to play violin, you know. ” “Why?” “If I were bad at it, you would be on your way to the hospital by now. She wondered occasionally why his mind needed so much distraction. “Oh, dammit!” he remarked, “dammit!” with great bitterness as he faced it. That she was provoked by his interference was obvious.
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