If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper. She knew that I cared for her, she had admitted that she cared for me. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. ‘Until today. ‘She is constantly thinking of you,’ I said. “Here is my card. By Jove! When I think of it I want to leap and shout!” “It would astonish that man with the barrow. She still had her letter of credit. .
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