She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. And now her father said she must not go. There were game watermen and game lightermen, heavy horsemen and light horsemen, scuffle-hunters, and long-apron men, lumpers, journeymen coopers, mud-larks, badgers, and ratcatchers—a race of dangerous vermin recently, in a great measure, extirpated by the vigilance of the Thames Police, but at this period flourishing in vast numbers. This was good. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. She was about to rush to his side, when she saw his clenched hands rise and fall upon the sand repeatedly.
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