There is a small yewtree west of the church. Spurlock knew exactly what he was doing, however: speculative mischief, to see how she would act. Her gratitude swelled within her. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. Her lips came together with an expression between contentment and the faintest shadow of a smile, her manner was one of quiet reserve, and behind this mask she was wildly discontented and eager for freedom and life. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire. The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable. She changed her mind that day, as her mother Marina had predicted. "There is no fee," said Dolby. She could hear their footsteps upon the pavement.
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