At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. " "Heaven have compassion on you, Rowland!" murmured his sister, crossing her hands and looking upwards; "you have none on me. " "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. Mr. ” Lucy finished Michelle’s sentence and steeled her resolve, drawing herself up to a straighter posture.
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