She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. Sheppard's weight had destroyed the equilibrium of the plank: it swerved, and slowly descended. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. She would just walk out of the house and go. ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green.
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