The chief of these was a figure of Liberty, with a cat at her feet, in allusion to the supposed origin of the fortunes of its former founder, Sir Richard Whittington. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. He resumed his listening. He yelled to her, asking her if she wished to have a drink with him, which she refused. ‘But do you not see that he will come again? I think it is better if you, both of you, go and leave me here to find—’ She broke off, looking away. But Blueskin was not to be silenced. Plain, wide-mouthed, freckled, and ugly, she was an instantly jealous creature, her saving grace that she took no pains to mask her extreme dislike 47 of petite, pretty girls. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes.
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