Perhaps Silas was injured. Dominic placed no faith in the reports that he had “looked well enough, considering.” At some ungodly hour, with him blackened by smoke, who could be accurate? And how much did the people of Paternoster Row even care, those for whom he’d fought so long, for whom he’d gone hungry, yet who had let him disappear into London destitute. It was a perfect practical example of why the democratic idea was a utopian folly, and Dominic wished to heaven that it had been himself rather than Silas proved wrong.
