A curious silence ensued. Wood. " "You're strangely superstitious, Sir Rowland," said Jonathan, halting, and looking steadfastly at him. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. "Stop thief!" clamoured the rabble behind. The young man looked at her. Why should she? she asked rebelliously. Honestly, I never did.
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