With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. She was strong, not unlike a pack mule or a camel; she thought to herself and smirked. There stood John and Mr. ’ ‘Sport!’ grumbled her betrothed, but he accompanied them across the ballroom all the same. He pulled rein at the sight of her, saluted, and regarded her with his rather too protuberant eyes. "Your hesitation convinces me he does," replied the widow. It isn’t such fun as it seems. I know South America and Canada like the lines in my hand. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly.
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