There is something sensual in the thought of lotus flowers. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. I went to the theatre that night. Now tell me, if you can, something about the man who calls himself Valade. The Night-Cellar.
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