“No man can realize,” she said, “what that pit can be. I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. It is easy enough to sing these little chansons in an original way—it requires a very different sort of ability to succeed on the stage. ‘And why have you not arrested him? Do not tell me you have allowed him to escape you. "Jonathan Wild, I'll be sworn," said Gay. " "Lead the way to it then, Saint Giles," said Jack, in a tone of mock authority.
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