She dropped the locket into its sweet hiding place. No fear o' that. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. She wanted to be alone. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. ’ ‘Is it, now? Well you won’t, then, for he won’t hear nothing, missie. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. Bribble’s rendering of the service —he had the sort of voice that brings out things—and was still teeming with ideas about it when finally a wild outburst from the organ made it clear that, whatever snivelling there might be down in the chancel, that excellent wind instrument was, in its Mendelssohnian way, as glad as ever it could be. With some difficulty, they managed to negotiate the passage with their burden and carry him out into the library. “Don’t!” she begged.
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