“The night had hardly cooled the courtroom air at all, and Stefanie’s shirt was already stuck most uncomfortably to her back. Her necktie she longed to wring about the throat of the smug Mr. Duckworth.She looked up anxiously at Hatherfield, who had just been brought in. As calm and unaffected as ever, of course, as if the heat couldn’t reach him, as if he hadn’t been up for hours already. He’d requested his own custom-built rowing machine to be brought into his cell each morning, and being Hathe...rfield had somehow convinced the prison staff to allow it, and he stroked for at least an hour before dawn broke, in that meditative trance she knew so well.The way he used to do, on the river.The crowd lining the courtroom was even thicker today, for the Duke of Southam himself had just been called to the stand. If Sir John had looked pallid and exhausted, the duke looked like a cadaver. His skin hung slack from the gaunt bones of his face, and he had neglected to pomade his hair, which frizzed thinly about his skull.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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