"You can, of course, identify this picture as Lady Trafford's property?" pursued Jonathan, with a meaning glance, as he handed it to the knight. ‘His wife? Pah!’ ‘You’re saying she is not his wife?’ ‘I am saying nothing. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. If only she had thought to plunge the scissors into her own heart! Hoddy … to return and find her either gone or dead! But even as the Wastrel's arms gathered her, there came the sound of hurrying steps on the veranda. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding.
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