“To tell you the truth though, I am quite a stranger in London, and it occurred to me that Mr. “It is too late for visitors,” she remarked. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. So they fenced with smiles. "Poor thing!" muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. He would be off her case just as soon as his fever for her broke and he found a lover, and she imagined he must have plenty of girls from ritzy families lining up to choose from.
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