Arrived there, their first object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,—a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in Southwark. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something. She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry.
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