We’ve brought a carriage to take you back to London, and I’ve settled with Trodger, who has just given me a coherent account of the affair. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible. We went our ways. ‘And I suppose I shall be obliged to endure another nonsensical tale about your husband. ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint. Oh, it is unbearable. Of late, however, his plotting had assumed a more dark and dangerous complexion.
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