Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill. Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her. She sat perfectly still, however. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?” Anna nodded.
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