Divers plans and figures were chalked upon the walls; and the spaces between them were filled up with an almanack for the year; a godly ballad, adorned with a rude wood-cut, purporting to be "The History of Chaste Susannah;" an old print of the Seven Golden Candlesticks; an abstract of the various Acts of Parliament against drinking, swearing, and all manner of profaneness; and a view of the interior of Doctor Daniel Burgess's Presbyterian meeting-house in Russell Court, with portraits of the reverend gentleman and the principal members of his flock. His thoughts, indeed, were too painful for utterance, and so acute were his feelings, that, for some time, they quite overcame him. What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. There’s something about you, a little flavor of Will, I suppose, that makes one feel—good luck about you and success. “Nobody understands them, of course, but we all look as though we did.
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