If not, I have plenty to think about,” she answered, leaning back in her chair, and watching the smoke from her own cigarette curl upwards. She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat. The two girls put on shoes and started walking towards the north side of town. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. He noted an ebony cane laid close to hand, which suggested she was able to get about. During all their long comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. He laughed lightly. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. Time was moving so fast, she could no longer count the days since Gosse had come to her with his preposterous suggestion at the Coq d’Or, where they were staying and where he had robbed her and left her and Martha to their fate.
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