, like to forget all about it—even their names. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. ‘Of course it is,’ corroborated Hilary. Sebastian administered bitter tonics to her, fluids she could not taste with her swollen tongue.
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