"Now, Jack," cried Thames, warmly grasping Sheppard's hand, "you are my friend again. Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland. Funny how all but the most cunning and promiscuous teenage girls never caught on, not in 1400, certainly not now. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. ” “And yet,” he murmured, “one of the greatest of our writers has declared that the true spirit of Bohemianism is denied to your sex. ” Her reverie broke, and she found herself still in front of the looking glass, a barrette hanging loosely from her hair. —Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724.
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