It was for ever. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within. Here, where every element of her surroundings was tawdry and commonplace, and before this young man of vulgar origin and appearance, it was striking. That'll tune me up.
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