"Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. "You are alone?" said one of the spinsters—Prudence Jedson. ‘But I was not there. " "I ought to add," continued Winifred, "that one of her shoes was picked up in the garden, and that prints of her feet were discovered along the soft mould; whether made in flying from any one, or from rushing forth in distracted terror, it is impossible to say. She ignored his question. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose.
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