You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. I'd like to shake you until your bones rattled; but the bones of a Roundhead wouldn't rattle to any purpose. I mean my cut-offs and boots. Sheppard put out her arms mechanically. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. “You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks. I asked him to take me away, and hide me. My death, probably. “I was lonely. ” He digested her statement as part threat and part promise.
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