Then he passed on, and thought no more about her.
On two occasions this happened. When the third came, the woman suddenly exclaimed—
“I know who you are now!”
“Do you?” asked Stephen, coming to a halt. “I wish I knew who you are. I have puzzled over your likeness to somebody, and I cannot tell who it is.”
The woman laughed, thereby increasing the mysterious resemblance which was perplexing Stephen.
“Why,” said she, “you are Stephen Esueillechien, unless I greatly mistake.”
“So I am,” answered Stephen, “or rather, so I was; for men call me now Stephen le Bulenger. But who are you?”
“Don’t you think I’m rather like Leuesa?”
“That’s it! But how come you hither, old friend? Have you left my cousin? Or is she—”
“The Lady Derette is still in the anchorhold. I left her when I wedded. Do you remember Roscius le Mercer, who dwelt at the corner of North Gate Street? He is my husband—but they call him here Roscius de Oxineford—and we have lately come to London. So you live in Bread Street, I suppose, if you are a baker?”