A creeping numbness invaded her. Gerald glanced down and saw her dash at a spread of blood on his own hand, only now realising that her dagger had found its mark. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. As far as I can, I belong to them all. His throat filled; he wanted to weep. Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities. ’ ‘A convent?’ echoed Gerald with interest.
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