I shall count it a privilege. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. There was no response. ‘The wretch said nothing to anyone. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. She went to market every day to fetch the daily bread and more herbs for more medicines and potions, plus treats for the apprentices made of honey and almond paste. “I had no idea that it was so abominably late. To-night all London believes that he was your husband. I made it a point to bring beachcombers to the house to fill her with horror of mankind.
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