“The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. With me behaving as if everything was infinitely matter-of-fact, what could he do? And just then Heaven sent old Manningtree—I didn’t tell you before of the fortunate intervention of Manningtree, did I? He was looking quite infernally distinguished, with a wide crimson ribbon across him—what IS a wide crimson ribbon? Some sort of knight, I suppose. Were any thing to happen to him, Newgate wouldn't be what it is, nor Tyburn either. White, my landlady, believes his story. I miss her a lot.
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