ABSTRACT
The Sunday after the riots, I happened to see Mrs Coates, as we were coming out of St George’s Church. 149 She was not in full-blown, happy importance, as formerly: she looked ill and melancholy; or, as one of her city neighbours, who was following her out of church, expressed it, quite ‘crest-fallen.’ I heard some whispering that ‘things were going wrong at home with the Coates’s — that the world was going down hill with the Alderman.’
