The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. Hetty, who had periods of lucid expression, put the thing for her from her pillow. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. Sheppard, and regarding her with an insolent and threatening glance. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her.
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