His voice was hoarse, and his rugged face full of pain. She regarded him steadily.
“No, Guardian.”
“It was not—she?”
“No,” said Unity.
“Are you sure?”
Unity clenched her hands and turned away, and her eyes grew hard.
“If it was, I should have known her.”
John rose to his feet and stood over her, his arms folded, and looked at her from beneath his heavy brows. Unity met his gaze. And so they remained for a second or two, and each knew that the other knew who had dealt the blow.
“It was n't her,” said Unity.
The words were stamped with finality. John, meeting the girl's set gaze, had a glimpse of rocky strata far beneath. No process of question invented by man would induce her to unsay the words.