If you don’t like it, I won’t be mad, I promise. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. You know the sort of thing. You need give yourself no more concern about Kneebone. It seemed that within an instant the Pestilence struck, and she begged me on her deathbed to shelter you and her grandson for the rest of your lives, as she could see that even though I was a ‘demon fiend’ and ‘minor devil’ that I loved you. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. I don’t want to bother you, of course. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead.
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