If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper. The doleful procession at once assumed a festive character. ‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. He had grabbed her in the stream, embracing her naked body tightly, running his hands over her breasts and clutching her buttocks. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. “See that man?” Sebastian would tap her on the shoulder on a crowded alleyway and say, “See how he lingers too long when he touches that little child? The glow in his eyes? That is lustful intent, my dear.
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