“What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. It would be downright cruel to disillusion her. The sense of publicity, of people coming and going about them, kept them both unemotional. It is no more a murder, but a duel, you understand. They send you every good wish. The report of his detention caused an immense sensation.
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