But although startled and clearly afraid, there was no self-consciousness in her gaze and she was standing her ground. Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. The Well Hole. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. Hill again—alive. “You do not quite understand,” she said gently.
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