He was shifting to reach his own weapon, which had fallen in between the pews at the back. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. But all this business has driven it clean out of my head. Besides—there is Sir John. His hat was placed upon one pole, his wig on another. Her lips parted, but no words came. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. But his hand was withheld by Thames.
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