The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. Her loneliness was consuming, Lucia. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. She was the actress his whim had chosen to play a passive part. ‘The man’s gone,’ her old nurse told her, when she had recovered a little. But I trusted to that ring of yours. Or run me through. To be sure, he was attentive, respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless camaraderie of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang if all the world knew it. The fatal shower, from which he and his little charge escaped uninjured, had stricken his assailant and precipitated him into the boiling gulf.
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