Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. Grace-church Street was entirely deserted, except by a few stragglers, whose curiosity got the better of their fears; or who, like the carpenter, were compelled to proceed along it. The life of a girl presented itself to her as something happy and heedless and unthinking, yet really guided and controlled by others, and going on amidst unsuspected screens and concealments. Furious shouting, and the thunder of running feet. We can be married tomorrow in Paris. The terror faded from her eyes.
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