Sepulchre's church struck one, on the eventful night of the 10th of June, (to which it will not be necessary to recur,) a horseman, mounted on a powerful charger, and followed at a respectful distance by an attendant, galloped into the open space fronting Newgate, and directed his course towards a house in the Old Bailey. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness.
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