My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. ‘I’ll take wine,’ the lady said briefly, turning back instantly to Hilary. That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard.
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