They seemed to her that morning to be all armed with nets and prepared to throw them over her directly her movements became in any manner truly free. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. Her slender throat was encircled by a black riband, with a small locket attached to it; and upon the top of her head rested a diminutive lace cap. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. They had a universe to talk about—two universes. It was lent me by a countryman o' mine; but I paid him back in his own coin—ha! ha!" "A countryman of yours, Terry?" "Ay, and a noble one, too, Quilt—more's the pity! You've heard of the Marquis of Slaughterford, belike?" "Of course; who has not? He's the leader of the Mohocks, the general of the Scourers, the prince of rakes, the friend of the surgeons and glaziers, the terror of your tribe, and the idol of the girls!" "That's him to a hair?" cried Terence, rapturously.
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