. ’ ‘I’m that sorry, miss,’ Kimble said glumly. She responded as he slipped his hands under her sweater. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. The south-east end of the island was hillocky, with volcanic subsoil. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. She regarded the young man coldly. Look in the small hide-bound book that he keeps in his boot. The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating.
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