The knight and his followers crossed the threshold, leaving one of the torch-bearers behind them. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. Drawing his hanger he rode amongst the crowd, trampled upon those most in advance, and made an attempt to seize their leader, in whom he recognised Blueskin. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. But he would die if he continued in this course. En tout cas, why had he not returned? She pondered the question as, later, she paced about her favourite retreat.
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