‘Bête. Now, you and I can gossip at a gate, and Honi soit qui mal y pense. The idiots are marching through the streets in processions from town to town, whipping their own backs until they are covered in blood, spreading the bloody Pestilence wherever they go! The dead pile in the streets like timber. For what could be more ironical than for Howard Spurlock to see himself grow famous under the name of Taber? The ambrosia of which he had so happily dreamt!—and this gall and wormwood! He stood up and rapped his pipe on the rail. Seeing Capes from day to day made a bright eventfulness that hampered her in the course she had resolved to follow. ‘Lucky I have you to keep me from Bedlam, then.
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