Sir John, by instinct and training, was an unimaginative person. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. The light touch of Ah Cum's hand upon her arm broke the thread of retrospective thought; and her gray eyes began to register again the things she saw. The sword, Jacques. “I’m sorry Mister McCloskey! I was out seeing my boyfriend!” He stared at her concernedly. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. Drive away the cat; throw that measure of gin through the window; and tell me why you've not so much as touched the packing-case for Lady Trafford, which I particularly desired you to complete against my return.
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