His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. More importantly, she had her wits. “I wonder,” he said, “if women do know things by instinct? I have my doubts about feminine instinct. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. His grip twisted her wrist.
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