A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. Much to my amazement, as soon as I was in her presence I forgot about my magic and thought only of love. ‘Don’t rightly know how you make that out, you being a French spy and a prisoner and all. One would think I had agreed to her going. . She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand. "This is very fine of you, Miss…. At this gate two paths meet. I did not know what God had in mind then. ‘But on the off chance—slim, I grant you —that there is a spy down there, I don’t want to miss the fun. She did not remember how many seasons it took before she relented, how much time before she decided to toy with his affections. “When did you start?” She said between puffs.
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