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But I found it no laughing matter, I can assure you. Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. There’s no logic in these things. ” John greeted him. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving.
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