Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. ‘I—I mean, she were—’ ‘Pretty as a picture?’ suggested Gerald. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. ‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. The Pursuit. Wood's. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life.
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