The men glanced at each other, uncertain of how to react. However, Edith was oblivious to it all. She was focused on one man, the man who was the ruin of her life, the man whose very existence and proximity filled her with such a righteous indignation that, against all social decorum, she could no longer contain it. That he, of all people, should be here, hale and hearty, having perversely survived all the indignities that the war could heap upon him, when her dear friends had been cruelly dispatched for his heretical sport. "You filthy murderer," she cried, spitting a gob of saliva in his direction. It fell short but the gesture shocked those watching. Jeffries smiled and casually picked lint off his lapel. "Bell. Stop this," said Sister Fenton. "You're making a spectacle of yourself." Edith struggled to face the men gathered round, confused and unsure. "Please, you must believe me. That man there is Fredrick Dwyer. He's wanted for murder." She heard the muttering of dissent ripple through the soldiers.
