She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. She glanced into his face. THAMES DARRELL. 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. ‘That’s better. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. At six o'clock, the wicket was shut; and at nine, the jail was altogether locked up.
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