‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. An unhappy little sigh escaped her. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. You are restless, aggressive, critical with all the crude unthinking criticism of youth. It was precisely two o'clock on the morning of Whit-monday, the 25th of May 1724, when the remarkable escape before detailed was completed: and, though it wanted full two hours to daybreak, the glimmer of a waning moon prevented it from being totally dark.
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