The mid-day sun is shining on the armour in the gallery, making mimic suns on bossed sword-hilts and the angles of polished breast-plates.

Yes, there are sharp weapons in the gallery.
There is a dagger in that cabinet; she knows it well.

And as a dragon-fly wheels in its flight to alight for an instant on a leaf, she darts to the cabinet, takes out the dagger, and thrusts it into her pocket.

In three minutes more she is out, in hat and cloak, on the gravel-walk, hurrying along towards the thick shades of the distant Rookery.

She threads the windings of the plantations, not feeling the golden leaves that rain upon her, not feeling the earth beneath her feet.