Jack hastily retreated, and taking the first means of concealment that occurred to him, descended the cellar steps. No one. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. He suddenly became eloquent and plausible. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands.
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