It was the note from Marie. I opened it, held it by a corner above Raine's ashtray, struck a match and watched it slowly burn away, the tiny flame creeping inexorably down the paper until it reached the words at the- foot, 'You and me and the lights of London', until those, too, one by one, were burnt and blackened and gone. I crushed the ash in the tray and went.
I closed the door with a quiet hand and left him lying there, a small dusty man in a small dusty room.
Вы читаете The Dark Crusader
