‘It is not your affair. "Your sympathy is being wasted. Nor, indeed, did she want to refuse. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. ‘That there governess didn’t like it, of course, me being the lodgekeeper’s girl, and Martha just a country wench like me. Perhaps you'll call that charity: I call it defeating the ends of justice. She’s right upstairs.
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