I'll lay my life he's gone. That is why I came to London. . Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. The clock struck half-past ten. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Before an hour had elapsed, the concourse was fearfully increased. "Pish!" exclaimed Hogarth. "In this pit," he added, pointing to the chasm below, "your brother is buried.
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