We'll turn the tables upon 'em yet. My arm's nearly well again. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. Her eyes flashed and she withdrew the dagger, pulling away from him. I thought that you were he. In a side-glance—for the floor was variously encumbered with overturned objects—he saw one of his paper weights, a coloured glass ball such as McClintock used in trade. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this.
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