Dermot watched her hands as she knitted, the quick fingers, the rhythmic loop-click-tug of the yarn, the slowly growing fabric. He thought of the Fates: one to spin the thread of life, one to measure it out, and one to cut it. The parallel wasn't quite apt. There was only one woman here, and she was not seeking to control the thread. Only, which was perhaps more unusual, to observe it, to see what was real, and only what was real. He shivered. There was something frightening about Jane Marple.
'Yes,' she was saying, 'it was all very simple, really...'