As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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