Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. "What is it you want?" she asked, as she held out the coat. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. ‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it. “Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. We’ve brought a carriage to take you back to London, and I’ve settled with Trodger, who has just given me a coherent account of the affair. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. Just at the completion of the new jail, in 1780, it was assailed by the mob during the Gordon riots, fired, and greatly damaged.
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