Then she passed from the room on the arm of General Lord Charvill, chatting animatedly to him. The chief of these was a figure of Liberty, with a cat at her feet, in allusion to the supposed origin of the fortunes of its former founder, Sir Richard Whittington. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. They were those of the Irish watchman. No other white people within twenty miles. The room behind was another small antechamber, presumably linking the back rooms. Certain of my prey, I can afford to wait for it.
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