“When are you going away?” He asked. I have never wept since that day. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. The idea of anything criminal never entered her thoughts. Ennison too, always handsome and debonnair, seemed transported out of his calm self. Wrenched from their holds, the iron palisades in front of the thief-taker's dwelling were used as weapons to burst open the door. He seemed safe from the sickness, having been surrounded by the dying, he had witnessed the carnage up close and yet his health still prevailed. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. And now I find, when it is too late, that I might have deserved you—that I am as well born as Thames Darrell.
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