Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. The account of the discovery of Sir Rowland's murder filled Winifred with alarm; but when she learnt what had befallen Thames—how he had been stricken down by the thief-taker's bludgeon, and left for dead, she uttered a piercing scream, fainted, and would have fallen, if Jack had not caught her in his arms. At that time, we were beneath the sway of Anne: we are now at the commencement of the reign of George the First. To love in such a way, it is excessively selfish. She did not know herself. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud.
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