"No, no," rejoined Thames; "fly—or I will not answer for your safety. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. 'But I don't desire to spoil sport,—not I. Monsieur Charvill, he has not the means to choose different. I’m glad the old sore is assuaged. ‘And if not her, for she is dead, then me. Then she stood up and looked around the room. She found herself struggling with a storm of tears. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. She seemed tense when not playing, he noted, more so than she had during the first two pieces. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut.
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