I sang to him, and he was satisfied. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. She was pleased and a little flattered by his interest and sympathy. Mentally but not physically competent. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. I’m sick of this town and I can’t wait to get out. I am sure that he can be got rid of. His fingers cherished the hilt of his sword and his eyes were on his friend and superior, ready at his back to do whatever was needed. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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