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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. On their left the river, with its gloomy pile of buildings on the opposite side, and a huge revolving advertisement throwing its strange reflection upon the black water. There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. A. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia.
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