“I drink your very good health, Sir John and Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “and I wish you a pleasant journey back to England. And meanwhile, we’ll just have these no doubt potentially lethal little claws of yours out of harm’s way. ’ She bit her lip, and then turning her face away, emitted another sigh. She is no longer mine; she is yours. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. We’re regarded as inflammable litter that mustn’t be left about.
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