She stood among them, watching them and feeling curiously alien to them. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. . He patted the hand on his sleeve. That’s where you go wrong. Ennison spoke at last. Wood, softening her asperity. At the end of two long lines of foot-guards stood the cart with a powerful black horse harnessed to it. The place was pockmarked with window-like holes everywhere—people were always 138 falling into them and breaking bones--it was for these lookouts why she had chosen it.
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