He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. “What made you marry him? What made you leave Paris without a word to any one? What made you and your sister exchange identities?” “There is one answer to all those questions, Nigel,” she said, with a nervous little shudder.
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