I don’t know anyone. She felt that she had passed a difficult corner, and that now she could go on talking with him again, just as she had been used to do before she understood what was the matter with her. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. Places, I found, were daily given away, And yet no friendly gazette mentioned Gay. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. The crowner's 'quest sat on her yesterday—and if she hadn't been proved out of her mind, she would have been buried at four lane-ends. The woman I wanted was another man's wife. Then he had gone away.
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