Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. “Because I hate you!” She spat. She felt this was the sensible way out of this oddly sinister situation. ‘But you are idiot. One day I can be a Gothic chick, and the next day I’ll be Hitler Youth. “Let me add too that I am thankful for your decision.
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