” “Right!” he answered. “Julian, please, let’s go to your place. He did not think of her as a killer, he could barely conceive it. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. ” “I don’t care how we meet,” she said. It was convenient for Father Saint-Simon, who could enter this way and prepare in the little room before going up the narrow stair to the chapel above where the nuns waited. She was going through with that, anyhow. A little within stood a second door, or rather wicket, lower than the first, but of equal strength, and surmounted by a row of sharp spikes. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around.
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