Grace-church Street was entirely deserted, except by a few stragglers, whose curiosity got the better of their fears; or who, like the carpenter, were compelled to proceed along it. ‘I trust you are cursing Valade, and not Melusine. And do you, Jack, attend to your work, and mind you don't get into further mischief. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. He passed, and came loitering back and stood beside her, silently looking into her face. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. The knight mechanically complied with his request.
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