In the gracious spaces of Queen’s Square a few linkboys led groups of men toward the gaming houses; a carriage with outriders paraded solemnly by, the warmth from the horses’ steamy backs touching my face. But down in the insalubrious alleys, the city stank. How could Forrest hope to change such a world as this? Stepping over a pile of muck, I guided Sylvia under the overhanging roofs, through the noxious lanes, where a filthy pig snuffled in a trough. She said, “Are you sure about this, Zac?” “I have to have the note-of-promise.” Didn’t she see that? “I have no money to pay these debts, Sylvia. My father is bankrupt. If I am ever to make anything of my wretched life . . .” “Yes. Yes. All right. I see.” Her arm was light on mine. Then she pulled it away, drawing her cloak tighter. I said, “You’re afraid.” “Not of Compton.”
