She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. I guess we could go for a ride. Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study. Jack looked towards the door. ‘And housebreaking,’ added Gerald calmly. So far she had not heard the sound of his voice.
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