” “To a friend?” “To lodgings—alone. . She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. Mrs. ‘I am sorry to hear of your misfortunes. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days. He stood up and she ushered him out of the small room.
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