"The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. ‘Don’t put me at the necessity of marrying the abominable little wretch. So saying, he manfully resumed his work; while Wood and Thames quitted the room, and went down stairs. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. “I shall be waiting for you there, and in the meantime, if you will help yourself—pray don’t look like that. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of his tie and hair were almost rakish. "And you have seen … drunken men?" Prudence's tones were full of suppressed horror. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words.
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