“Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. Gerald raised his cockaded hat, and smiled. Mr. I sent a message straight. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. . But the besetting evil of the place, and that which drew down the severest censures of the writers above-mentioned, was that this spot,—which of all others should have been most free from such intrusion—was made a public exhibition.
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