But she had loved the man. 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. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. He did not think of her as a killer, he could barely conceive it.
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