She thrust at him, following, almost spitting him as he crashed against the altar, rocking the huge candlesticks and the vessels that stood on it. She had thought of the lawyer who conducted the Remenham business, but she knew not where to find him. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere.
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