They buried him in Willesden churchyard after the robbery. “Lucy, have you noticed that I don’t even own a dog?” He spoke into her hair. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. It was a second reminder that against her claim to go free and untrammelled there was a case to be made, that after all it was true that a girl does not go alone in the world unchallenged, nor ever has gone freely alone in the world, that evil walks abroad and dangers, and petty insults more irritating than dangers, lurk. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. Sheppard, I'm sure, will say as much for you.
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