"Too late, master," replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly tone, for he
did not much like the appearance of his customer; "just shut up shop. Ann
Veronica watched her face, vaguely sympathizing with her, vaguely disliking her
physical insufficiency and her convulsive movements, and the fine eyebrows
were knit with a faint perplexity. . . . She was not squeamish—although the sight
of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but
Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. She attacked me with a carving-knife, and,
when I had disarmed her, the jade bit off a couple of fingers from my left hand. ‘But for how long?’ Lady Bicknacre asked apprehensively.
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