Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. By and by the tramp of horses' feet was heard slowly ascending Snow Hill, and presently a troop of grenadier guards rode into the area facing Newgate. How was I to know what would happen? He always said if he couldn’t get you a dowry, you could take the veil.
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