She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. “So you still think of me as husband, even though we have long since tired of each other. ‘Why did you kiss me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Gerald admitted. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. Planting his knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with one hand, while with the other he sought his knife. I was once a disciple of Saint Peter myself, and speak from experience. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it.
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