Before the Monroes I was placed with a single woman, Leslie Cavendish. ‘Come, come, ma’am,’ he said smiling. These joyful bounds just lace into the stuff of my memories and stay there forever. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. A nurse came hurrying up. Taking his new purchase under his arm, Jack proceeded to a small tavern in the same street, where, having ordered dinner, he went to a bed-room to attire himself. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction.
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