The concourse extended along Giltspur Street as far as Smithfield. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. Those lives removed,—and Sir Rowland is completely in his power, the estates would be yours—HIS! if he were your husband. Was she a fool to wish a person of a disposition altogether not pleasing to marry her? Was it not true that he made a game with her very often? Had he not been extremely interfering from the beginning? And had he not kissed her, just when— Her thoughts skidded to a stop.
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