She remained thus mysteriously still and suddenly collected till Mr
Verloc was heard with an accent of marital authority, and moving slightly
to make room for her to sit on the edge of the sofa.
"Come here," he said in a peculiar tone, which might have been the tone
of brutality, but, was intimately known to Mrs Verloc as the note of
wooing.
She started forward at once, as if she were still a loyal woman bound to
that man by an unbroken contract. Her right hand skimmed slightly the
end of the table, and when she had passed on towards the sofa the carving
knife had vanished without the slightest sound from the side of the dish.
Mr Verloc heard the creaky plank in the floor, and was content. He
waited. Mrs Verloc was coming. As if the homeless soul of Stevie had
flown for shelter straight to the breast of his sister, guardian and
protector, the resemblance of her face with that of her brother grew at
every step, even to the droop of the lower lip, even to the slight
divergence of the eyes. But Mr Verloc did not see that. He was lying on
his back and staring upwards. He saw partly on the ceiling and partly on
the wall the moving shadow of an arm with a clenched hand holding a
carving knife. It flickered up and down. It's movements were leisurely.
They were leisurely enough for Mr Verloc to recognise the limb and the
weapon.
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