His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. I wasn’t. Even two Cabinet Ministers took to their heels, grinning insincerely. Wagner had just been in love when he wrote it all.
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