My name is Armytage—Lord Ernest Armytage. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. “She has lost something,” he declared, “something which brought the men in crowds around the stage at the ‘Ambassador’s. It is like a second honeymoon. A world of haystacks, bean-stacks, and strawricks flanked the granges adjoining his habitation; the yard was crowded with poultry, pigeons were feeding at his feet, cattle were being driven towards the stall, horses led to the stable, a large mastiff was rattling his chain, and stalking majestically in front of his kennel, while a number of farming-men were passing and repassing about their various occupations. ToC Monday, the 31st of August 1724,—a day long afterwards remembered by the officers of Newgate,—was distinguished by an unusual influx of visitors to the Lodge.
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