Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. He thrust the smaller weapon into a scabbard that hung from his belt. She could not move. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. ” She side-stepped into his living room from behind a square white column.
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