Already she knew that she was overstaying her welcome. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. “And if I were you I would keep away from the fire. ” She turned and fitted the latchkey into the door. His most eager inquiries and most lavish bribes could gain no further information than that she had left for England, and that her address was—London.
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