"I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink. She stared at his pleading face. The man looked hard at him. She became eager to explain herself, to show herself in the right light. Wood in the deepest mourning. “Do you think he’s still around?” She paused thoughtfully. . There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. These were his mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. . And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said. It did not seem quite fair.
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