The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. But Melusine’s own words had thrown an idea into her head. Ann Veronica decided to be more explicit. Her tone was hoarse with passion. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. You had better go to bed. “Can’t stop, thanks,” he answered. This person, whose age might be about forty, was attired in a brown double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees; black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with round toes, wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver buckles. But they were all pretty nearly of the same length, and built somewhat after the model of a boat, having extremities as sharp and pointed as the keel of a canoe.
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