Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. The lantern was on the ground inside, ready. Proof that the scoundrel had risen from the dead—for he was dead to his father! He glared at the female whose appearance in England had revived those painful memories—churning unbearably since Brewis Charvill had brought him the news and put him in the worst of tempers—and the fury spilled out. She could tell that he probably wanted to kiss her, but she did not act upon the opportunity. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. She shuddered as his naked body pressed against her. Let me only wear your livery. But the offences I have committed are venial in comparison with what I should commit were I to wed your father.
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