Alack, her art died
with her.  There be base and weakling imitations left, but no true
blasphemy.”

The Ruffler sighed; the listeners sighed in sympathy; a general
depression fell upon the company for a moment, for even hardened
outcasts like these are not wholly dead to sentiment, but are able to
feel a fleeting sense of loss and affliction at wide intervals and
under peculiarly favouring circumstances--as in cases like to this, for
instance, when genius and culture depart and leave no heir.