Paris, 18. Giles's church, the bell of which continued tolling all the time, passed the pound, and entered Oxford Road, or, as it was then not unfrequently termed, Tyburn Road. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. He was even a little jealous of Sebastian. The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right. I want to know—just as much as I can. Goodbye. I want to ask you a plain question, and you must answer me faithfully.
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