“You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. “I see nothing of my sister,” she said. I’m taking no chances. But his hand was withheld by Thames. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. Sebastian dug through the viscous layers of foul-smelling clay with a shovel, each successive insertion creating an obscene sucking noise that ate at her sanity. But tell me one thing I don’t understand—tell me one thing: How can you help it by coming down into the battle and the mire? That’s the thing that concerns me.
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