He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Her fingers were bursting through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch with Ann Veronica. Jiggle-joggle, jiggle-joggle…! For each pause she was grateful. ‘The gatehouse? But why must you move him at all?’ ‘Listen, missie. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely.
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