'Richie, the squire has finished his bottle by about now; bottle number two.

He won't miss us till the morning, but Miss Beltham will.

She'll be at your bedroom door three or four times in the night, I know.

It's getting darker and darker, we must be in some dreadful part of London.' The contrast he presented to my sensations between our pleasant home and this foggy solitude gave me a pang of dismay.

I diverged from my favourite straight line, which seemed to pierce into the bowels of the earth, sharp to the right.