‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. He also knew that she was the one responsible for the murders of Diane, Eric, and Michelle Vorsack on a single night. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. He guided her hand to his crotch, which had already grown in size. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her.
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