Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. It was a habit she had taken from Remenham House, but could not wear because of the colour which must draw attention. "'Tis a cruel thing you've done, lad. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup.
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