Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. She did not know herself. Arrived there, their first object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,—a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in Southwark. The father was a madman. At this moment, Blueskin appeared with the lamp, and revealed a horrible spectacle,—the floor deluged with blood,—various articles of furniture upset,—papers scattered about,—the murdered man's cloak, trampled upon, and smeared with gore,—his hat, crushed and similarly stained,—his sword,—the ensanguined cloth,—with several other ghastly evidences of the slaughterous deed. But we can’t help noticing. "You have said," pursued the widow, "that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable. The scanty furniture of the rooms corresponded with their dungeon-like aspect. “We don’t let to ladies,” they said. ” She stated boldly. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. 75 “Lucy’s going to Prom with John Diedermayer?” Cathy nodded emphatically. He flung Ruth aside, careless whether she fell or not. That was the glorious if bewildering truth.
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