The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. “Why come after me after all these years, Sebastianus? Haven’t you found any sycophants to convert, any nubile young nymphets to bring into the cannibal flock?” “Why should I do that if there is still the chance of you?” “What if there could be no chance of me? How do you know you can have me?” “I see your game. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. Mom, this is Lucy Albert from school.
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