She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. But do not awaken my apprehension, unless you have good cause for so doing. The will to live had returned. Capital swordsman.
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