He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. None this end. This isn’t the place. The other bona roba, known amongst her companions as Mistress Poll Maggot, was a beauty on a much larger scale,—in fact, a perfect Amazon. His looks were fixed on his old benefactor.
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