They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. I am your servitor. But she was only able to save a corner of the letter. Their conversation was conducted in the flash language, and, though unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by this companion, who learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had received his hurt from her son, whose courage and dexterity formed the present subject of their discourse. The affair passed at one leap from a spree to a nightmare of violence and disgust. Posts were offered to all who chose to accept them. “What can you do?” she asked. “My dear sweet Lucia.
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