“Once or twice. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. Hearing the approach of the rider, Mr. 167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. ‘But how do you come here?’ ‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly. A boy like John’s dashing friend David Mitchell, someone who shares your love of academics. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat.
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