"Was that thunder?" he faltered, as a terrible clap was heard overhead. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. ‘You are mad,’ Gosse uttered, and only just had time to get himself up from the floor. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. “Cheveney!” she repeated. “It’s precious unromantic. But the sheer immensity of the tract! James Boyle was certainly up against it, hard. Anticipating this, Wild avoided the shot by suddenly, ducking his head. ‘You wish to die?’ ‘Not in the least. ’ He fitted the hat onto her head, and was aware as he did so of her eyes watching his face. “Good-bye, John,” she said simply.
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