Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. ” “We will go to a very quiet place,” he assured her, “a place where I have often taken my own sisters. It would be swindling. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. Thank him, not me, man. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet.
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