Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. Pole coolies came joggling along with bobbing blocks of jade—white jade, splashed and veined with translucent emerald green. 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. She found herself looking sheepishly around the bedroom when a sudden tingle of electricity moved from her groin, fanning out from her belly. ‘The gatehouse? But why must you move him at all?’ ‘Listen, missie. ” She looked up at him quickly. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. I cannot answer that question. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. He could not know about the Remenham connection, could he? No one knew but her father and Martha. And many of these deaths could be avoided if it were not for superstition.
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