The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable. “What were you trying to do?” Lucy asked. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. My first visit will be to you. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery.
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