Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. I didn’t betray you, I swear I didn’t. Nothing could occupy her attention long today, unless it concerned her situation. You say you have twenty-four hundred in your letter of credit. ‘Jacques?’ she called. “Was I not strong enough when you flogged me for leaning over the oubliette? Who tells you these things? The physician, Sebastianus? Am I not sovereign enough to judge what is happening to my own body?\" She demanded.
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