Bolingbroke had sunk into his chair, and buried in his thoughts, was slowly sipping his wine.
Lancelot Vane continued to breathe heavily.
"Come here, child," said Gay through the open window and sinking his voice.

The crowd had pressed round her and were clamourous for her to sing again.

Some had thrown her a few pence for which a couple of urchins were groping on the ground.
The girl approached.
"Now Polly----" "My name's Lavinia--Lavinia Fenton, sir," she interrupted.
"Too fine--too fine.

I like Polly better.

Never mind.