‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. These thoughts, however, came to a broken end. . . A coach was also in attendance, at a little distance. And all the talk of the Miniver people and the Widgett people seemed always to be like a ship in adverse weather on the lee shore of love. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. Forgive me. Skirting the noble gardens of Montague House, (now, we need scarcely say, the British Museum,) the party speedily reached Great Russell Street,—a quarter described by Strype, in his edition of old Stow's famous Survey, "as being graced with the best buildings in all Bloomsbury, and the best inhabited by the nobility and gentry, especially the north side, as having gardens behind the houses, and the prospect of the pleasant fields up to Hampstead and Highgate; insomuch that this place, by physicians, is esteemed the most healthful of any in London. Straw and other combustibles being collected, were placed in the middle of the audiencechamber. Two hours had come and gone during this tantalizing occupation. ’ ‘Sir!’ came from Trodger, and the booted feet clattered off and out of the front door. But, when the sound of the carriage-wheels died away, and he felt that she was actually gone, his resolution failed him, and he rang the bell violently.
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