He tugged at the overly large hooded sweatshirt, which she unzipped and let fall to the ground. Let him be sure. And this damning evidence―’ with a brusque gesture at the portrait ‘―must also be destroyed. He wiped the sweat from his chin and forehead. “I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. “She is living there now,” she remarked. ” She was frightened—his anger always did frighten her—and in her resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch. It is in vain to struggle against the arm of fate. Missy looked like a troll with lipstick on.
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