The uproar was tremendous—men yelling—
dogs barking,—but above all was heard the stentorian voice of Jonathan, urging
them on. She was aware of it
now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in
a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room
and pretend not to hear. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly,
made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. Spurling and Marvel rose too. "Two hundred pounds, if he's lodged in Newgate before to-morrow morning,"
continued Wild. "Will he post the cole? Will he come down with the dues? Ask him that?" cried
Blueskin. ‘Lord, no! I’ve a better regard for my skin, I thank
you. He then said that if
she would not obey him in this course she should “never darken his doors
again,” and was, indeed, frightfully abusive. "Now, let's see who'll dare to take him down," she cried. We went to
the Embassy.
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