Murder had become nothing to her. Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. ‘Point it at me. ‘You’re either mad, or in love. Wood. Play foul, and win. It was only a few months ago that I told you you must come to London, and you only laughed at me. The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke. Or, if you must take off my clothes, don't dash cold water on my head. Wood was an old friend of mine—and I recollect seeing Jack when he was bound 'prentice to him. ’ ‘No, miss,’ cut in Kimble.
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