His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. But you are Annabel. The prison was two stories high, with a flat roof surmounted by a gilt vane fashioned like a key; and, possessing considerable internal accommodation, it had, in its day, lodged some thousands of disorderly personages. One comes at last to the step from dreams to reality. In olden days it boasted a chapel, dedicated to Saint Thomas; beneath which there was a crypt curiously constructed amid the arches, where "was sepultured Peter the Chaplain of Colechurch, who began the Stone Bridge at London:" and it still boasted an edifice (though now in rather a tumbledown condition) which had once vied with a palace,—we mean Nonesuch House. It was time to get up. It seems he does not inherit the title. It was filled with sopping lichens and green benches too slimy to sit upon. For a space he rode the whirligig. The title had formerly been held by Gianfrancesco’s brother, Alessia, now dead of plague.
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