John laughed even harder, his eyes misting over. ’ ‘Eh bien. The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. They walked back to 118 hand in hand. Sepulchre's church, where, in compliance with an old custom, it halted. Tell me. Bowing to the stranger, the woollen-draper very politely requested to know his business. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. . .
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