‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window. He groped her buttocks. In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. Dunstable’s contributions to the conversation were entirely in the form of nods; whenever Alderman Dunstable praised or blamed she nodded twice or thrice, according to the requirements of his emphasis. The old-fashioned dress, with its series of ruffles and printed flowers, ballooned treacherously, revealing her well-turned leg in silk stockings, as it snapped against her body as a mould. ‘I can’t help but be sure,’ he returned shortly. As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. A pity, en effet, that she dare not truly desire him to rescue her.
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