Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. We’re regarded as inflammable litter that mustn’t be left about. “You see, her sister is married to Ferringhall, isn’t she? and she herself must be drawing no end of a good screw here. It is no good waiving the thing; it is true. She had hardly noticed the loss of her dagger, so strong had been the waves of relief that attacked her on hearing that Jack had returned from death’s door. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed. Can't I make you understand? Perhaps it sounds cruel to you; but we women often have to be cruel defensively.
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