He was so seldom wrong. ‘First I must see Jacques, and—’ ‘No need for that,’ intervened Roding, grasping her arm and trying to drag her to the door. His eyes were set too close together. “But it’s a long business. Spiders came out of their hiding places to commune in windows, industriously spinning their own designs over the stained glass. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music.
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