He took a handful of the gravelly mud, with which the platform was covered, and threw the small pebbles, one by one, towards the gleam. Cathy chimed. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. As it was feared that some mischief would ensue, Wild volunteered, if he were allowed a small body of men, to ride forward to Tyburn, and keep the ground clear until the arrival of the prisoner. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. But, like all your overbearing sex, you must have your own way.
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