“The life of a private secretary is positively one of slavery. By many a highwayman many a draught Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft, Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down, And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. ‘The old man who lives here, idiot. For was not Gerald a gentleman? An Englishman, whose services any female—excluding her own self so idiote— would be very happy to have.
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