Michelle was laid onto the back seat, her head cradled in Lucy’s lap. Now the pig knew where to find her—for it would not take long for a Catholic to locate the convent in Golden Square—even if she escaped him here. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. “I murdered them, John. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. When I promised to marry you I thought I could; I thought it was a possible arrangement. She did not have the power of men.
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