“No, rather a tool for the man with a brain. Any fool can fight with a club.”
She drew the blade sharply from the scabbard, still moving backward step by step till the table was between her and John Gore.
“It was some such sword as this that killed my father.”
“Perhaps.”
He shirked the subject, as though afraid of paining her or abetting her in her distemper.
“If I could only know the truth! The mystery of it haunts me.”
She laid the sword upon the table, quite close to her hand, so that she could snatch at it if things came to such a pass.
“Some parts of life are better forgotten.”
“If we can forget.”
A great impulse stirred in him, bidding him go to her and take her hands.