She realized that with a pang of disgust and horror. "Tell me the truth, I implore you," cried Thames. The Supper at Mr. He went over her features one by one in his mind. Her lover surely did not 223 understand the implications of what he had asked for and his lust blinded him to the realities of existence even now. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. Here, Jem, take the gentleman's horse to the stable—see him dressed and fed directly. In olden days it boasted a chapel, dedicated to Saint Thomas; beneath which there was a crypt curiously constructed amid the arches, where "was sepultured Peter the Chaplain of Colechurch, who began the Stone Bridge at London:" and it still boasted an edifice (though now in rather a tumbledown condition) which had once vied with a palace,—we mean Nonesuch House. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back.
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