At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. Kneebone's habitation, the shutters of which were closed, and knocked at the door. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. ‘I can’t tell you the times I’ve wished for a gun to point at Hilary’s head. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious.
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