The hardest bout I ever had was with a woman—Sally Wells, who was afterwards lagged for shoplifting. Just a friendly polite suggestion. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. The pavement had been hastily picked up, and heaped across the end of the street, upon which planks, barrels, and other barricades, were laid. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. Boldly he turned the knob of a certain door and entered. “Now, there, there. Gin Lane's the nearest road to the churchyard. I cannot explain beyond that. Then, one night, he glanced up to behold Ruth and Rollo in the doorway. You think everything is harmless and simple, and so forth. Have you ever heard the name of Meysey Hill?” “Meysey Hill?” He repeated it after her, and she knew at once from his tone and his quick glance into her face that the name possessed some significance for him.
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