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“Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. I bear the marks of some of them about me still," he continued, taking off his wig, and laying bare a bald skull, covered with cicatrices and plates of silver. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. There haven't been so many ladies in the Lodge since the days of Claude Du Val, the gentleman highwayman; and they all declare it'll break their hearts if he's scragged. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. His hair was thick and brown and his skin was fair.
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