Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’ A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them. For a long time he stared at the empty doorway. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. “Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. E. “After all, there are great things left in the world for you.
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