” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. She saw her discarded nun’s habit still on the floor and scooped it up. “Yeah. Yet she held her tongue. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. That’s my point. There were game watermen and game lightermen, heavy horsemen and light horsemen, scuffle-hunters, and long-apron men, lumpers, journeymen coopers, mud-larks, badgers, and ratcatchers—a race of dangerous vermin recently, in a great measure, extirpated by the vigilance of the Thames Police, but at this period flourishing in vast numbers. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. Little more’n a week. ‘Of course. It was for ever. “Hey sis!” He cried drunkenly.
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