“Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. About many of these houses hung a mysterious taint as of something weakly and commonly and dustily evil; the women who negotiated the rooms looked out through a friendly manner as though it was a mask, with hard, defiant eyes. Pain sliced into Gerald’s hand and his sword arm jerked. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright.
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