In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. Servants were passing backwards and forwards with tea and chocolate. What was yet more worthy of note was, that the widow's countenance had an air of refinement about it, of which it was utterly destitute before, and which seemed to intimate that her true position in society was far above that wherein accident had placed her. "Something fresh on hand, I suppose?" "I'm come to inquire after Jack Sheppard," returned Jonathan. Am I quite hidden?" "Not quite;—keep your feet in. Wild," implored the turnkeys. I'm a graybeard, an old bachelor; so I am accorded certain privileges.
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