It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. ‘And it is me you dare accuse? It is yourself you should arrest. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. I must have been very wound up. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. Beyond was a field sloping steeply upwards, and at the top a small pine plantation. Several of the assailants carried links, so that the room was a blaze of light.
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