Outside the door stood one of the soldiers. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. She never calls herself ‘Alcide. I'm not noble; so my honourable ancestors will not turn over in their graves. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. He came in apologetically; all the old “Well, and how ARE we?” note gone; and once he asked Ann Veronica, almost furtively, “How’s Alice getting on, Vee?” Finally, on the Day, he appeared like his old professional self transfigured, in the most beautiful light gray trousers Ann Veronica had ever seen and a new shiny silk hat with a most becoming roll.
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