Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. Stunning and continuous, the din seemed almost to take away the power of hearing. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. I suspect he has a bit of vanity. The pavement had been hastily picked up, and heaped across the end of the street, upon which planks, barrels, and other barricades, were laid. Thames Street was wholly impassable.
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