No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. Lord help him! he's the very image of his father. Peste, but everything had become difficult. No one seeing you together could doubt that she is your granddaughter. She had reason enough to be grateful to Prudence Sindlesham and it was not fair that this horrible feeling of loneliness should be made known to her. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily.
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