The smile had become a laugh. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. The dress was her mother's, and she was wearing it to save a little extra money. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning.
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