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Lucy stood relieved that she had not messed up the solo. The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments. "How long will he be laid up?" "Three or four weeks, if he doesn't peg out during the night. Wood!" exclaimed Jack, in surprise.
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