I can never be grateful enough. The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. I suppose this is what she learns in her infernal London colleges. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table. She ran away from you; and now I can easily understand why. This person, whose age might be about forty, was attired in a brown double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees; black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with round toes, wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver buckles. I was looking for rooms last week.
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