So was I, in fact. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. She still kicked herself for it. That would come later. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. Wary they might be. His father spoke for him. She had not felt comfortable in his presence from the first, and with Leonardo’s precepts in mind, was loath to trust him. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected.
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