It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. "I guessed what was coming. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. And we won’t make it so. They are long gone. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window.
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