Wood, furiously. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. And as these things should always be treated as matters of business, I'll just draw up a memorandum of our arrangement. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. After that night she made it a habit. Silly woman!. “I did it for love of you,” he said.
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