“Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. Wild is a friend of yours, I'm sorry for what I said. No, this was imbecile. Once in the room, the door locked, the sense of loneliness had dropped away from her as the mists used to drop away from the mountain in the morning. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. " "'Bloody and deceitful men shall not live half their days'," said Wood, reading aloud another passage. ‘You said?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss.
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