She had never even brought a friend home in her time at the Becks, let alone been asked on dates. ‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. She was not allowed to bathe herself: another prisoner, with a privileged manner, washed her. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. One learns to sit up.
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