She did not learn the kind of looks she had been bestowing upon him at a convent. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. She crooked her finger.
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