‘Yes, ma’am,’ agreed Gerald with a grin. She wore a wonderful dress of turquoise blue, made by a great dressmaker for a function which she knew very well now that she would never attend. She lied. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains.
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