Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Where was the harm in letting her go? She could not get far. . She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. ‘Silence,’ he warned again, with a prod of the dagger at her heart. ’ A tiny giggle escaped her, and she lowered the pistol a trifle. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands.
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