” She wondered what to. ” “There will be some coffee and music in the drawing-room in a few minutes,” Mrs. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. My house is the next door to the Cooper's Arms, in the Old Bailey, opposite Newgate. A narrow entry, formed by two low walls, communicated with the main thoroughfare; and in this passage, under the cover of a penthouse, stood Wood, with his little burthen, to whom we shall now return.
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