He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. I am your husband, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine. And then she fell into a musing about Capes. ‘It is seldom enough I am visited by anyone at all, let alone a personable young redcoat. Hadn’t the stomach to admit the truth, had he? I’ll lay any money he labelled you with some foul French name as well. His subconscious sensed the unnaturalness of it and recoiled. Presently he turned to Courtlaw. And yet, Spurlock was afraid of the doctor; so was Ruth.
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