She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. The garçon was tipped as he had never been tipped before in his life. See paragraph 1. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. She covered herself with her arms. All in a moment. Jack was a comical scoundrel, and made a little too free with his grace's best burgundy, as well as his grace's favourite housekeeper. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. Too many. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. He was pretty successful in Manchester,—a town which may be said to have been the head-quarters of the disaffected. There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman.
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