She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. "As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. But remember my warning, and play the game!" Spurlock closed his eyes again. "I am your most unhappy son.
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