” The lady in black satin appeared undecided. . In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. A message was dispatched from Florence that she was to again receive her future husband. Skirting the noble gardens of Montague House, (now, we need scarcely say, the British Museum,) the party speedily reached Great Russell Street,—a quarter described by Strype, in his edition of old Stow's famous Survey, "as being graced with the best buildings in all Bloomsbury, and the best inhabited by the nobility and gentry, especially the north side, as having gardens behind the houses, and the prospect of the pleasant fields up to Hampstead and Highgate; insomuch that this place, by physicians, is esteemed the most healthful of any in London. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The looming face was 71 over her own once again, and arms as strong as iron bars held her down.
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