In fact, I order you to do so. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. “Tell me his name,” he said, “and I promise that he shall never trouble you. You're in a more serious scrape than you imagine. He was like a man beside himself. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. Indeed, it seemed inevitable that she must clear it up with his assistance, or not at all. She cleaned everything, wiped every surface, mopped and scrubbed every last drop of blood. “I must go.
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