Whose head might represent a fury.
“At home, sir?” “No! (whisper)—but I’ll presume
To tell the truth, or know the raison.
She dines—tays—lives—in the back room,
Bekase ’tis not the London saison.”
From thence I went to Lady Bloom’s,
Where, after sundry rings and knocking,
A yawning, liveried lad appear’d,
His squalid face his gay clothes mocking
I asked him, in a faltering tone—