With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance. "Your uncle, Sir Rowland?" "It is no idle boasting," replied the other.
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