A week has passed, uneventfully. I'm not quite sure if I approve or not. I find a growing part of me craves excitement. I think in future I may be more selective about my choice of activity though. I truly don't think I could survive another night out with 'Liza. The bruises have just about healed after all, though they can scarcely be blamed on her directly.
Finally, I'm clean. After what seems like hours in the tub, my skin is back to its alabaster glory and the rank stench of the sewers is but a fading memory. Wrapped in my warm night-gown, cup of tea in hand, I recline on my comfortable sofa. By all accounts, I should be in bed with a terrible hangover, or dead. The excitement from the night before has me buzzing - and oddly elated.
I pace about the shop, searching. Clutching the velvet bag, secured tightly with a ribbon, I scan my shop for some nook, crevice or other opening. Perhaps it is just me being paranoid, but something was amiss with that last visitor. Most of my clientele are friendly, forthright, and pleasant. This one, though observing the standard pleasantries, had a distinctly foul air about him.