She studied Picot, made a note of him as openly and casually as if he were a door marked “Exit,” and walked steadily over to Avril.
“Good evening, Canon. You wanted to see me about the jacket?” Her voice was like the rest of her, bright and bold and not very nice. It contained a jar in it, as if a comb and paper somewhere entered into its production, and her teeth, which looked as if they were made of china, shone in false bonhomie. “I’ll sit down here, shall I?”
She moved the small armchair before the desk so that it was directly in Picot’s light, and sank into it. Her feet only just touched the ground, but she kept her shoulders straight and the sergeant could see her hat, steady as a rock above the low back.
The Canon was on his feet, looking at her gravely across the desk.
“Yes,” h
