Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. Austin was dismissing a host of inquirers who had been attracted thither by the news,—for it had already been extensively noised abroad. He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof, approached another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story loftier than its neighbours. I must finish it at home. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her.
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