“Perhaps not,” said Pierre shortly, taking his leave. “But remember my words. I trust you to see justice done.”
“Never fear,” cried José, her pig eyes gleaming. . . .
Finally, the steeple-jack spoke with his wife.
He chose their last night together.
It was a stifling evening: such air as found its way into their apartment seemed to be stale: odours of neighbouring kitchens rose up stagnant. Out of the roar of the traffic continual cries of newsvendors stood as syrens out of a gale.
Madeleine sat by a window, sewing hard. Lacaze lounged upon a settee, smoking calmly and oiling a pair of boots.
My lady finished her stitching and cut the thread. Then she held up her work and turned it about. After a moment she rose and crossed to her husband.
“Is that what you want, Pierre? It does not look very well, but I think it will wear. If it is right, I will do the other shoulder.”
Lacaze examined the shirt.
This was a cotton affair of green and grey stripes. Over one shoulder strips of fine linen had been laid, by way of a pad. These had been quilted beautifully.