She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. She opened one and found herself in a large untidy room set with chairs that were a little disarranged as if by an overnight meeting. What were you doing at Remenham House? I can’t puzzle that bit out. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application.
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