95 The officer showed her into the sleepy suburban police station, a hub of inactivity on Sunday night except for herself and a slightly drunk woman who had been brought in for DUI. ‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. ‘In love? I? Don’t be ridiculous. "Heaven be praised, I am not the son of a nobleman. What sort of proof? There are no papers at Remenham House. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters.
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