“But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. But then—Oh! Madam, there are moments—moments of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence—in the lives of the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue. That old world that had shoved up that silly old hotel, and all the rest of it. Clergymen were human. Let him not bear the weight of my punishment. You will go to London?” “It is necessary,” she answered. After all, where prayer fails, a pistol is bound to succeed. So I've grown hard—outside. .
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