’ ‘That wasn’t my fault. Clotilde rushed out of the house, carrying her boy and tugging her girl by the ear. It was just a chance that we in particular hit against each other—nothing predestined about it. She cleaned everything, wiped every surface, mopped and scrubbed every last drop of blood. ’ ‘A pox on the creature,’ swore Mrs Sindlesham, clenching and unclenching her stiff fingers. ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green.
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