She glared at him with satisfaction. Spurling, half aside. Her hair was held back in a filigreed barrette. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. ’ He stared at the point, glanced at the fallen sword imprisoned by her foot, and only just looked back at her weapon in time to see it thrust at him again. The man was my husband. “Why, among other things, did I put my knuckles in his neck—deliberately to hurt him?” She tried to sound the humorous note. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Luckily I’m not.
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