“Fighting goes with loads of its own baggage, John. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. A short flight of steps brought him to a dark passage, into which he plunged. “Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. Get on, do. But I don’t wish to hear that abomination on her lips again.
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