She twanged the catgut under her fingers. This was the first young man who had drawn from her something more than speculative interest. She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. " As he spoke, the door of the round-house was opened, and a stout man, with a lantern in his hand, presented himself at the threshold. That’s why I wanted your weapons. Why are you doing all this?’ To his surprise, Melusine relaxed back, emitting a laugh that sounded perfectly genuine.
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