She shuddered. "Don't be angry with me, Thames," continued Sheppard, in a tone calculated, as he thought, to appease his companion's indignation. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. Tears sprang to her eyes. Her eyes were insane with rage, crusted with yellow and green, only beginning to heal from her long sojourn underground. . And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. The Bitchster strikes again. You shall swing for this after next sessions, or my name's not Jonathan Wild.
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