"Mercy on us! Well, I thought their manners quite out o' the common. . . I can’t even make myself care. " The Wastrel advanced. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. She was quite tired of the stream of visitors and heard with relief the words of her newfound great-aunt, addressed to her son’s butler. But it was almost choked up with fallen stacks of chimneys, broken beams of timber, and shattered tiles. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. "Better than your company, Saint Giles," replied Sheppard; "so, shut the door, and make yourself scarce. Won’t you come and have some tea with me? There is a new place in Bond Street,” he hastened to say, “where everything is very well done, and they give us music, if that is any attraction to you.
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