The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn. He was staring at her, openly gaping. But the wench who tricked me shall bitterly repent it. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds. She ran to the lamp and extinguished it. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face.
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