On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. ‘Gérard will think that I have gone back to London. We are not altogether strangers, are we? I feel that under the circumstances I have the right to offer you my advice, and if necessary my help. And it is not at all his affair. His father spoke for him. So there is no escape.
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