The young man entered into a lively little war of words with a yellow-haired young person near the door. The red glare fell upon the slimy brick-work, and tinged the inky waters below. He was a handsome man, and Lucy could see the strong resemblance of John to him. They’re fairly intricate little things. “What was that?” she asked sharply. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. It’s odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels. ‘You should rather be arresting the girl and throwing her into gaol for attempted murder. She had come across the wicked South Seas which were still infested with cannibals; she had seen drunkenness and called men beachcombers; who was this moment as innocent as a babe, and in the next uttered some bitter wisdom it had taken a thousand years of philosophy to evolve.
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