At last he could bear it no longer. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. Lucy had tried for years to find a way of not getting blood all over herself when she made a kill. She laughed as the deluge seemed to grow worse with every step. It’s an emerald. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. Such an obvious ruse, but the boys and girls would defend their pride to the bitter end, the facade of study groups during rutting season.
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