CHAPTER 44

I remember the stifling stillness that clung to the hall that night—a stillness interrupted only by the conscious breathing of the people there and the distant agitated thudding of a bird in the garden. In the garden, the neatly trimmed hedges and immaculately sprayed walks made no impression on the incessant spasmodic thudding of wings as the solitary bird thrashed for a place to roost. There was silence, then, and in that silence all noises were heightened: the soft hiss of breath, the slapping of feet on cold marble, and the unspoken strain that settled upon us like a shroud.