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"I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. "The Dutchman was right, after all. But you could have just as easily lost your womb in the Pestilence, and your life. Then there was also the horse. And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison. "Speak English?" boomed the voice.

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