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. No more. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. This was not exactly what the woollen-draper desired. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. Wood, terrified by the wildness of her looks. But she did not talk readily, and in order to say something she plunged a little, and felt she plunged.
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