I did not reckon upon—him. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. On beholding the intruders, his fears changed to exultation, and he uttered a roar of satisfaction as he glared at them, which could only be likened to the cry of some savage denizen of the plains. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. She clasped her hands over her mouth in a silent scream. ‘I have first some affairs to finish.
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