The woman I wanted was another man's wife. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. ‘Comment? You have then met this Suzanne?’ The woman turned a deep red. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. I cannot protect you. The young man had knocked over the siphon. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate. 5.
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