But then it stopped ahead of me, and I felt no need to avert my step, for there was no danger to be had any more. Sir Jocelyn’s head reappeared from the carriage.
‘Dora,’ he said as I neared.
‘Yes, Sir Jocelyn?’
He smiled broadly, albeit somewhat sadly, tipped his hat at me by way of farewell, and said quietly, such that I could scarcely hear it over the rumble of traffic and trains: ‘Your arse may be a perfect octavo, but your spirit shall not be bound.’