Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. ‘Then it must certainly be Eugénie. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. He pushed her small hand into his jeans. Panic leapt into his eyes as he brought his wrist up just in time to parry the blade. They talked lightly and smoked cigarettes till Anna, with a little laugh, threw open the window and let in the cool night air. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. You desert your home; I throw up useful teaching, risk every hope in your career.
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