She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would never tell whom he married. “I brought a man with me who is posted outside,” he remarked. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. “My word holds,” she said.
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