She crooked her finger. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. It was in fact the first embrace of motherhood she had ever known. His fingers closed upon her hand. I shall still wear your favor—even if it is a stolen and forbidden favor—in my casque. " "The same who was here just now?" "No, Sir Rowland, a much finer boy. I have a big breakfast. "You have defied me, and shall feel my power.
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