The future Mrs Roding turned bright, laughing eyes on the major. Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. Wood did think of it, and groaned aloud. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. “When did you start?” She said between puffs. What you said wanted saying. ’ ‘Compel me? You do not know me, monsieur. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird. ’ A wary look came over her face, and Roding intervened. “The truth!” It was a moment of awkwardness between the two sisters —a moment, too, charged with its own psychological interest, for there were secrets between them which for many months had made their intercourse a constrained and difficult thing.
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