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She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical. ‘Yes, do,’ approved Lucilla. None of this by-play escaped Ruth, whose sense of humour needed no developing. Practically. It would be the culmination of her plan. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. The main idea now is of the future. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. Swinging her arm in an arc, she let go of the foil and it flew across the chapel towards the main door, crashing down between the pews, and clattering onto the floor.
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