Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. That boy was the carpenter's apprentice, Jack Sheppard. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade.
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