The carpenter did not hesitate a moment. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. I can get into my clothes. . Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. ‘What’s more,’ went on Martha, ‘I knew something Mr Charvill didn’t, or he wouldn’t so readily have left it behind him. The vast heap of rubbish on the floor had been so materially increased by the bricks and plaster thrown down in his attack upon the wall of the Red Room, that it was with some difficulty he could find the blanket which was almost buried beneath the pile. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat.
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