They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. There were game watermen and game lightermen, heavy horsemen and light horsemen, scuffle-hunters, and long-apron men, lumpers, journeymen coopers, mud-larks, badgers, and ratcatchers—a race of dangerous vermin recently, in a great measure, extirpated by the vigilance of the Thames Police, but at this period flourishing in vast numbers. “I dare not,” she answered.
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