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Show that had been creasing her brow. Still she did not smile. He squeezed both her hands with a lingering touch of reassurance until at last she did. Then he turned his collar up close to his ears and leaned into the damp November cold. Home was a small wooden frame cottage in Lambeth Harsh. It was not unlike other homes in London each built next to another sometimes appearing to share a common wall. As he strode briskly through the streets, winding and narrow, he tipped his hat to familiar neighbors, never breaking stride. At age 45, John Lathrop was taller than average, lean, and slightly round shouldered. Because he was easily recognizable from a distance, menibers of his flock would often hail him down to listen to their troubles. That he never broke stride today was their cue not to inter.cept him. Once outside the town proper, he headed in the direction of the Thames. He loved the loneliness of that route and the gnarled old trees that graced the pathways, especially around the Palace of Lambeth. When at last he drew near the river, fog was beginning to roll in. His wife thought him a bit odd because he liked the fog so well. He liked it best when tne fog was moving in and around not just settling in. |