" "Where are the assassins?" cried Sheppard. "I am here, you see," said the smith. Norris. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. "I was only commenting. Something in his tone pinched her heart. “And yet I do it without compunction. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. ’ ‘Of course I am, imbecile,’ she snapped, unconsciously echoing her greatniece. ’ She sagged a little suddenly, as if the painful memories in her mind had exhausted her body.
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