Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. “He’s got good taste, you know.
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