She flailed against the doctor’s grip but after what seemed an eternity of kicking and flailing, amazingly, he had not seemed weakened in the slightest by her resistance. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. “I have answered all your questions,” she said. ‘As I have said, it was a quarrel between the vicomte and Monsieur Charvill. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free.
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