‘I can’t tell you the times I’ve wished for a gun to point at Hilary’s head. I am sorry that I do not know any one in London. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. And, without another word, he seized the table with both hands, and upset it; scattering plates, dishes, bottles, jugs, and glasses far and wide. Oh, God!” Rhea sniffed the air through two gaping nostrils that had eroded through her onion skin flesh. She was glad when he went on: “I want to be your city of refuge from every sort of bother. He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy.
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