Agnes, bless her, was sitting asleep on the stairs outside my garret door with a half-burnt candle. “Agnes dear,” I said softly. “What are you doing?” She rubbed her eyes and yawned, “Oh Miss Lion, I knew you would need help out of your dress. Did you have a nice costume party?” So sweet after Islington’s vinegar, I kissed her on the cheek. Agnes took such a fancy to the birds we extricated from my hair that I told her she could keep them for an arrangement. It would serve Islington right if she displayed them right below his portrait in the kitchen.
