"Ah!" she screamed, seeing the uplifted weapon in Sheppard's hand, "don't hurt Thames—don't, dear Jack! If you want to kill somebody, kill me, not him. He made it brief. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them.
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