The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. All seemed infected with Austin's terrors except Mrs. Epithalamy might do. "Poor thing!" muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. Then she cursed herself for his eyes went to the letter and came back to her face. The streets were full of colour. Grandmothers and grandfathers and uncles and aunts … to love and to coddle lonely little girls. But at the word “home” she turned again. To-night all London believes that he was your husband. Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. .
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