As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. She was carefree. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. She glanced towards her sister, and curiously enough found in her face some faint reflection of her own rather sombre mirth. The wards on the right were occupied by male patients, on the left by the female. Brewis had told him the Valade family had been victim to wholesale murder, and a twinge of compassion had wrung even his deliberately hardened heart. Emile looked at her, then down, and clearly caught the bright gleam on the floor. ‘Wait a minute, though. “Were you thinking of private apartments, a boarding-house or an hotel?” she asked.
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