It wasn’t clear to me that I had to explain. Instead her point disengaged, dropped, and then the sword came up again and banged, flatbladed, onto Gosse’s wrist with such force that his own blade dropped from his grasp. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Men had tried that before, but never until now had they been quick enough. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture.
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