CHAPTER VII. If you met her you would, I am certain, think her as fine as I do. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. A constant attendant at court, he had the mortification to see every one promoted but himself, and thus bewails his ill-luck. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse.
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