After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the carpenter to his sleeping apartment—a comfortable cosy chamber; such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. “Where to?” he asked, as the hansom drove up. That’s Italians for you. How Jack Sheppard attended his Mother's Funeral 435 XXVII.
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