But Miss Stanley took no notice of these things. He left his companion in the midst of a glowing eulogy of Bastien Leparge, and boldly intercepted his hostess as she moved from one group to join another. With a loud shout, and headed by a powerfully-built man, with a face as black as that of a mulatto, and armed with a cutlass, the rabble leapt over the barricades, and rushed towards the vehicle. This costume, though somewhat extravagant, displayed his slight, but perfectly-proportioned figure to the greatest advantage. “He spends hours of every day on the pavement below,” Anna answered calmly. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. He was placed in a coach, handcuffed, and heavily fettered, and guarded by a vast posse of officers to Temple Bar, where a fresh relay of constables escorted him to Westminster. Ann Veronica glanced at the mirror to discover a flushed and dishevelled disorder.
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