On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. I'm sorry. “My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. . But let that verse tell my secret. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian.
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