One did not use pistols against a female. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound. And now YOU’RE on the war-path. She was always breaking rules, whispering asides, intimating signals. Prudence Remenham. She noticed that this trunk was not littered with hotel labels. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel.
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