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Byron and his Industrial Radicals were utterly destroyed . . .
But a hempen rope had choked her father into silence. The Radicals
ruled on and on, moving from triumph to triumph, shuffling the world like a
deck of cards. And now Mick Radley was up in the world, and Sybil Gerard
was down.
She stood there silently, wrapped in Mick's coat. Paris. The promise
tempted her, and when she let herself believe him, there was a thrill
behind it like lightning. She forced herself to think about leaving her
life in London. It was a bad, a low, a sordid life, she knew, but not
entirely desperate. She still had things to lose. Her rented room in
Whitechapel, and dear Toby, her cat. There was Mrs. Winterhalter, who
arranged meetings between fast girls and political gentlemen. Mrs.
Winterhalter was a bawd, but ladylike and steady, and her sort was
difficult to find. And she would lose her two steady gentlemen, Mr.
Chadwick and Mr. Kingsley, who each saw her twice a month. Steady tin, that
was, and kept her from the street. But Chadwick had a jealous wife in
Fulham, and, in a moment of foolishness, Sybil had stolen Kingsley's best
cufflinks. She knew that he suspected.
And neither man was half so free with his money as Dandy Mick.
She forced herself to smile at him, as sweetly as she could. "You're a
rum'un, Mick Radley. You know you've got my leading-strings. Perhaps I was
vexed with you at first, but I'm not so cakey as to not know a rum
gentleman when I see one."
Mick blew smoke. "You are a clever one," he said admiringly. "You talk
blarney like an angel. You're not fooling me, though, so you needn't
deceive yourself. Still, you're just the gal I need. Get back in bed."
She did as he told her.
"Jove," he said, "your blessed feet are two lumps of ice. Why don't you
wear little slippers, eh?" He tugged at her corset, with determination.
"Slippers, and black silk stockings," he said. "A gal looks very flash in
bed, with black silk stockings."

From the far end of the glass-topped counter, one of Aaron's shopmen
gave Sybil the cold eye, standing haughty and tall in his neat black coat
and polished boots. He knew something was up--he could smell it. Sybil
waited for Mick to pay, hands folded before her on her skirt, demure, but
watching sidelong from beneath the blue fringe of her bonnet. Under her
skirt, wadded through the frame of her crinoline, was the shawl she'd
nicked while Radley tried on top-hats.
Sybil had learned how to nick things--she'd taught herself. It simply
took nerve, that was the secret. It took pluck. Look neither right nor
left--just grab, lift her skirt, stuff and rustle. Then stand quite
straight, with a psalm-singing look, like a gentry girl.
The floorman had lost interest in her; he was watching a fat man
fingering watered-silk braces. Sybil checked her skirt quickly. No bulge
showed.
A young spotty-faced clerk, with inkstained thumbs, set Mick's number
into a counter-top credit-machine. Zip, click, a pull on the ebony-handled
lever, and it was done. He gave Mick his printed purchase-slip and did the
parcel up in string and crisp green paper.