Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. ‘It does not seem to me that you can be an emissary for that pig. Then she went below. ‘How in God’s name did the wretched fellow get in then?’ ‘Dug a tunnel?’ suggested Gerald, halting next to a pair of French windows at the front. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. ‘Alors, I see it.
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