Presently, looking at her with his head propped on his hand, he said gravely: 'I wonder whether this is the last walk we shall have together ?' 'Who can say ?' she answered in a light tone.
'Some one ought to be able to say.' 'I never make prophecies, and never believe other people's.' 'Shows your good sense.

But _I_ make wishes, and plenty of them.' 'So do I,' said Nancy.
'Then let us both make a wish to ourselves,' proposed Crewe, regarding her with eyes that had an uncommon light in them.
His companion laughed, then both were quiet for a moment.
They allowed themselves plenty of time to battle their way as far as Westminster Bridge.

At one point police and crowd were in brief conflict; the burly guardians of order dealt thwacking blows, right and left, sound fisticuffs, backed with hearty oaths.

The night was young; by magisterial providence, hours of steady drinking lay before the hardier jubilants.

Thwacks and curses would be no rarity in another hour or two.
At the foot of Parliament Street, Nancy came face to face with Samuel Barmby, on whose arm hung the wearied Jessica.